


Future Tense

by William_Easley



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Humor, Politics, Time Travel, alternate time lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 55,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28770849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/William_Easley/pseuds/William_Easley
Summary: Stanley Pines once made a run at being Mayor of Gravity Falls, but that's in the past. And in the future. Complete in 27 chapters.
Relationships: Mabel Pines/Teek O'Grady (OC), Wendy Corduroy/Dipper Pines
Comments: 74
Kudos: 13





	1. Chubby Guy, Cloudy Future

**Future Tense**

**By William Easley**

_(April and July 2018)_

* * *

**1-Chubby Guy, Cloudy Future**

Some things never change. That's not right. In fact, all things change, only some very slowly. The pyramid, for example, arose in ancient Egypt because it is a super-stable form of construction. Build one right, anchor it on bedrock, and that sucker's there for millennia. Oh, it may be covered by rising seas or by sand dunes that grow a quarter-inch every ten years, but it will still be there, right where you put it, for thousands and thousands of years.

It may erode, given the right climactic conditions. Human agency may strip it of stone cladding or blocks, to be repurposed elsewhere. But, generally speaking, pyramids are sturdy, unchanging structures. Nearly unchanging. Rarely does one change rapidly.

Now, Bill Cipher had changed rapidly. Not just his mental form, the physical one he abandoned when he invaded the mind of (as he falsely believed) Stanford Pines. It was actually Stanley Pines's mind he entered, and in it Stan punched out Cipher, reducing him to insubstantiality, too weak to reclaim his physical form, which had been left behind as a smallish sandstone pyramid.

However, substantial though these forms are, that one failed to last. It crumbled to powder between August 2012 and some time in 2017. Before that happened, Stanford Pines had sealed it in a cage of steel bars, fearful that some force, maybe Bill himself, was attempting to reconstruct and vitalize it.

Whether the cage had anything to do with it or Bill Cipher's awareness, now fully relocated to the human boy Billy Sheaffer, was more responsible, the pyramid inside the cage had simply crumbled to sand. Unlike Ozymandias, in passing Cipher had left not even a shattered visage and two vast and trunkless legs behind. Cipher was gone, man, solid gone.

Therefore, Stanley Pines's solitary visit to the site might be regarded as a little questionable. His memory had been wiped when Cipher was erased, and he had been slowly regaining it over six years, almost. He still had blank spots, though operating as it does, by association, his recollection slowly, steadily grew.

You know how it is. A random whiff of something, maybe dry-erase markers, plumps you mentally down in the middle of your third-grade classroom, with Mrs. Devrey standing writing out a sentence, her big butt moving, the little fat bags under her upper arm doing a happy dance, and for a moment it's like you're right there, because you associate the scent of markers with that place, that time.

Or, another example, some idiot coming the other way on a rain-slick road tries to pass a truck, and without warning, there in your lane the car looms, right in front of you, and by instinct alone you yank the wheel and your car goes thumpity-bump onto the grassy shoulder and down the embankment, nearly but not quite, thank God, rolling over.

You know you'll have to shell out money for a tow truck and then you discover you blew a tire and have to call Triple-A, and while you sit there on the shoulder waiting in the dark, a cold rain riffing on your windshield, you reflect on how strange it was that in the instant you saw the approaching headlights, you felt as if you were ten years old again and sitting in the back seat of your dad's Caravan that night when he yelled, "Brace!" and the van smacked an unfortunate deer (in dreams you still feel the jolt and hear the _spang_ and the scream of rubber on asphalt) and went spinning madly off the road and into a creek.

One memory prods another, and so it goes.

Stan's memory came back like that, bits at a time, one thing jostling another. First time he went to Vegas after Weirdmageddon, he started to sit in on a poker game and with his hand on the back of the chair, all at once he remembered, _My God, I got married here years ago!_

His wife's image swam in his mind's eye and then he remembered, _Great marriage, it lasted six hours. Why was that? Oh, yeah, Rico's goons were after me._

And there he was, in the same casino where that hot mess happened. He changed his mind about the game, though.

What creatures we are. We swim through a sea of memories. In fact, for the most part we _are_ memories. Our lives are the sums of our experiences, and those experiences are stored as memory.

These reflections did not go through Stanley's mind as he stood beside the empty cage on that spring day. His trip had nothing to do with recovering forgotten moments. He'd received a message. Well, a good many, all at the same time. An early-morning telephone call had wakened him and after he gruffly said, "Yah?" an odd artificial voice said, "Be at the Cipher statue site, nine this morning." _Click._

When he fired up his computer to check on the morning news, a blue screen popped up with big white letters: CIPHER STATUE SITE 9 AM TODAY.

When he turned on the dining-room TV a few minutes later, a newsreader looked up, seemingly straight at him, and said, "This just in. Be at the Cipher statue site by nine."

Weirdly, Sheila, Stan's wife, was right beside him and when he asked, "What'd that guy just say?" she set down her coffee cup, stared at him blankly and then replied, "The Senate just approved the Supreme Court nominee."

She had not noticed the newscaster's mention of nine A.M. and the Cipher statue.

 _Crap, it's something paranormal,_ Stan thought.

That caused him to walk down the Mystery Trail and to wade through the overgrown grass to the small clearing where the Cipher effigy had landed in August 2012. He stood beside the empty steel cage, his feet wet from dew, just before nine in the morning of old Bill Shakespeare's probable birthday as the seconds clicked down to nine on the dot.

Stan wasn't much surprised when a guy beamed into existence, like the guys on the old _Star Trek_ TV show that Ford used to love to watch. He was a pudgy fellow with Coke-bottle glasses and brown hair, and he wore like a blue-gray disco suit or something. He said, "D-do no-not be alarmed! I, I, I mean you no-no harm!"

"Yeah, well, you ain't all that alarming," Stan said gruffly. "You're the time-travel guy, right?"

"I'm Blendin Benjamin Blandin," the guy said, miraculously without stuttering. "And y-yes, I c-come from the year Twenty Snyeventy Th-thirty-one. We-we of the Time Paradox Avoidance and Elimination squad want you to d-do something f-for us."

"Who's 'we,' what do you want, and what's in it for me?" Stan asked.

"F-first, you are Stanley F. P-Pines and not his b-b-br-bro, twin Stanford?"

"Yeah," Stan said. "You want my ID?"

"Not nuh-necessary if you'll l-let me suh-scan you."

"If I do, you gotta marry me," Stanley said. When Blandin just looked shocked, he added, "That's a joke. Yeah, I guess."

"Th-this won't hu-hurt," Blandin said, holding out something that looked a little like a cell phone and a little like nothing else. Blendin pushed a button or something, like the doctor in _Star Trek_ who pointed his salt-shaker thing at a guy and said, "He's dead, Jim."

However, Blandin said, "Your mo-mo-morphological suh-stats check out. Listen, I've got all the tuh-time in the world, b-but let's do this quick. You know wh-what a tuh-time line is?"

"Yeah, I think so," Stan said. "My nerdy brother and nerdy nephew talk about that sometimes. It's like there's a whole mess of other universes that are nearly like ours but not completely, right? Like some guy does something and that causes a new time line to branch off. In one time line, in the distant past some guy eats a random butterfly, so in that one in the present New York is named You Nork. In the other one, the butterfly eats the guy, and in that one it's New Cocoon."

"R-roughly," Blandin said.

"So how come you want me to do your dirty work?" Stan asked. "Somethin' needs changing, you do it yourself."

"It do-doesn't w-work that way. Changes are un-unstable unless they o-o-originate within the ti-time line itself."

"OK, to keep you from having to repeat, I'll say I accept that. So what do you want me to do? And why do I hafta do it?"

For a moment Blandin looked as if he didn't know whether to respond or not. Then he said reluctantly, "Our puh-problem is that if we don't do-do anything, th-this time line is going to lo-lose Suh-Soos."

Stan tensed, his fists clenching. "Say what?"

"I c-can't guh-give you details, suh-sorry. It's vi-vitally i-important to us that Soos luh-lives. The puh-pivot point's coming up this Juh-July. If I can puh-persuade you to take a certain c-course of action, this t-time line will be puh-preserved and the alternate w-won't happen."

"OK, I think I'm getting' some of this. Look, I don't mean to insult you, but try singin' instead of talkin'. Sometimes that helps control a stammer. Hey, didja know that stammering is a mark of high intelligence?"

Looking surprised, Blandin sang in a passable tenor, "I'll try that and see if it helps. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, well I'll be darned, and thank you Mr. Pines!" The tune wasn't much, but it might charitably be called musical.

"So sing out what you want me to do," Stan said.

"I have to give you," Blendin trilled, "a disturbing glimpse of the future!"

If anyone had happened along, they would have thought something very odd was going on as a tubby guy in a jumpsuit serenaded a grumpy-looking fellow in a red fez and black suit.

And they'd be right.

* * *

So now it was July, and Stan stood on the steps of the City Hall with Mayor Cutebiker, who addressed not only Shaundra Jimenez and Toby Determined—reporters—but also an assembled crowd of about a hundred citizens who had nothing else to do at eleven on a Saturday morning.

"Fellow Gravity Fallers!" Tyler Cutebiker said, "Speaking as Mayor, I'd like to thank you all for your support over these past six years for me as Mayor. It's been a great ride for me, your Mayor, and I hope you find your lives better today than they were during never mind all that."

A listless cheer went up.

"Thank you," Tyler said. "But at this point in my career as Mayor, I want to pursue some other pursuits. Like parachuting! That's on my bucket list. Oh, and adding to my bucket collection! But it wouldn't be fair to you if I, your Mayor, split my time, because as you know, being Mayor, which I am, requires a person's full-time concentration. Therefore, as my first term in office winds down, I am retiring from my position as Mayor of Gravity Falls."

A somewhat more enthusiastic cheer rose.

With his hands on his hips, Tyler said in a mincing sort of way, "Now, all you know that the City Council has implemented some changes in the old laws. In the future, marriage to woodpeckers is not legally sanctioned."

"Aw!" said a disappointed voice from the crowd.

Tyler waved his finger. "Now, now! This change does not affect current arrangements! And what you do on your own time will not be challenged, so long as the other party does not object. Whatever you and a woodpecker want to do is your business, as long as you and the bird both consent. Live and let live is our motto now."

Someone else called out, "I thought it was West of Weird."

"It is," Tyler said. "But I was speaking metaphorically. Anyway, I'm stepping down as Mayor of Gravity Falls. Now, as you know" (most of them didn't) "we have also overhauled the election code, so that from now on, instead of relying on eagles and birdseed and what-not, we're going to have plain old boring elections. It's the American way!"

A voice in the crowd chanted, "USA! USA! USA!"

Tyler nodded. "I am going to recommend a friend of mine and a leading citizen of our community and Justice of the Peace at large, Mr. Stanley Pines, whose criminal record has been expunged, to replace me as Mayor. Of course, we'll throw open the election to any other candidate who qualifies by coming to my office, the Mayor's office of me, the Mayor, to sign the candidate's book by the deadline of five PM next Monday. Then we'll have a week of campaigning, and then on Tuesday, July 17, we will cast our votes. Stanley, do you want to say a few words?"

Stan shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. I'm not gonna stand here and tell you I've been an angel. I haven't. But like Tyler, who's the Mayor of Gravity Falls" (Tyler swelled visibly) "has told you, my record has been cleared, and I've been on the straight and narrow for these past six years."

A woman called out, "You and your brother gave us the free clinic! They saved my daughter's life! Bless you, Stanley Pines!"

Manly Dan, way in the back, boomed out, "You bring Woodstick back every year! Them tourists spend money! Best of all, Sev'ral Timez always visits!"

Stan waved his big hands. "OK, right, yeah, I'm a businessman, right? If you elect me Mayor, I'll carry on Tyler's tradition and work for the betterment of all." He hesitated. Blendin Blandin had told him some things, but he wasn't sure if he was supposed to keep them secret. Well—maybe he could avoid detail. He took a deep breath and resumed, "I'm not gonna lie to you. Some hard times are comin'. I'll help us get ready to face them. We'll all have to hang tough and be strong, but I pledge that if I'm your Mayor, Gravity Falls will sail through the rough times and emerge not worse, but better. And I promise to work for the benefit of all."

The crowd applauded, and afterward, some shook his hand and wished him well.

But in Gravity Falls, you can never be too sure about anything.

This was going to be a worrying week.

* * *


	2. Ominous

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**2-Ominous**

After the Shack closed at six P.M. that day, Stan called a meeting in the family dining room. Dipper, Wendy, Mabel, Teek, and Soos looked at him expectantly. None of them had heard anything of Stan's announcement that morning. All the tourists who'd streamed through the Shack were from out of town—many from out of state, and a few from out of the country—and no one had taken the time to listen to or watch any news bulletins.

Mabel wore a worried expression. These kinds of meetings were rarely called for cheerful purposes. The only ones she could remember mostly concerned paranormal puzzles, cryptic creatures, or supernatural spookums.

Stan said, "OK, gang, I got an announcement. So far nobody knows about this except Sheila, Lorena, and Ford. Well, nobody outside the family, let's say. It's something I never expected to say—"

"Are you sick?" Mabel blurted.

"Yeah, of bein' interrupted!" Stan said. "Ha! I kid, I kid. Not sick, Pumpkin, maybe a little crazy in the head—"

"My Abuelita says _loco en la cabeza_ ," Soos put in helpfully.

"Thank you for that information," Stan said. "Naw, the news is that Tyler's had his fill of Mayoring, and he wants to retire. He's asked me to run for the office, and I said yes."

"Not again," Dipper groaned.

"Break out the mind-control tie!" Mabel said.

"Nix on that," Stan said. "Not gonna need it this time around. I think I've polished up my reputation over the years."

"You're the best CEO of a tourist attraction anywhere in Roadkill County!" the loyal Soos assured him. _"_ Hey, I got a slogan! _If you don't vote for Mr. Mystery, you're history_! Is that, like, too wordy? Maybe _Vote Mystery or be History?_ "

"Maybe something a little less threat-y," suggested Wendy.

"Grunkle Stan," Dipper said, "have you thought this through?"

"Yeah, tell you guys more about my reasons later," Stan said. "Look, I got Tyler's endorsement, I got people in town that like me 'cause of the clinic me and Ford started, plus I've been real active in the Better Business Bureau and the Chamber of Commerce and the Holy Mackerel Lodge and all that. Anyway, I promised somebody I'd run. I think I got a real shot this time."

Soos said, "But Mr. Pines, dawg, you're, like retired. I mean, it's a great big responsibility, being Mayor. It'll mean lots of hard work and junk. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Stan said. He didn't add that he knew for a fact that Tyler Cutebiker typically worked at being Mayor for only two to six hours a week, and before him Mayor Befufftlefumpter had worked at being Mayor for an average of thirty minutes a year. Of course, he had been 102 in the year before his death, and his memory and thinking, originally well below average, were not what they used to be. "Nah," Stan added, "I can do the job, no sweat."

"Can I be, like Assistant Mayor?" Soos asked.

"Sure, why not."

"Yes!" Soos punched the air. "My ascent to power has, like, begun!"

" _Anyway_ ," Stan said more loudly, "reason I called this meeting is, I just wanted to let you guys know and to ask your help in the campaign. I mean, so far, I got no challengers, but just in case one or two crawl out of the woods, I want a campaign crew to back me up, handing out flyers, putting up posters, that kind of thing. Ford says he'll help out, too. So, who's in?"

"Me and Teek one bajillion per cent!" Mabel said.

"Yeah, I guess so," Wendy said.

"Where Wendy goes, I go," Dipper promised.

"Good, good. Now, you kids—yeah, I know, you're not exactly kids any more, but you know what I mean—if you'll come down the hill to our house, I want to talk about designing posters and hand-outs and stuff. And Sheila and I will feed you. That OK, Soos?"

"As Assistant Mayor-almost-elect, I say yes! Want me to come with?"

"Nah, Rosa's gonna have your dinner cooked soon, and anyway, you're kind of tied up here in the Shack during the day. The kids can take turns and rotate duty putting up posters and such, right? You can let one of 'em out of work to do stuff like that?"

"That has the Assistant Mayor-almost-elect's approval!" Soos said.

Stan jerked his thumb toward the door. "Let's go."

* * *

Stan's house was down the hill, within sight of the Mystery Shack—anyway, from Stan's yard you could see the sign above the pine tops—and Sheila had prepared a big pot of spaghetti and meatballs, with garlic bread and a generous salad. Stan resolutely forbade discussions during dinner, but afterward he kissed Sheila on the cheek and asked, "OK if we go down to the rec room, hon? You need help here first?"

"Of course she does," Wendy said. "Get moving, gang! Mabel, Teek, you scrape the dishes. Dipper, you rinse. I'll load the dishwasher. Sheila, you can take care of wiping the table, counters, and stove."

Nobody objected, and in five minutes they had the kitchen and dining room back in shape. Then they went downstairs to the room with the pool table and discovered that Stan had already brought in two armchairs. Wendy and Dipper took the loveseat, while Mabel and Teek took the chairs.

"All right," Stan said, standing in front of them, nearly resting his butt on the pool table. "Sheila, Lorena, and Ford already know this. You guys gotta swear that you won't let word get out about what I'm gonna tell you."

"You got it," Wendy said. Dipper, Teek, and Mabel agreed.

"Buckle up," Stan said. "It's a crazy story. You all know Blendin Blandin—"

* * *

Yes, they all did. Teek had even met him once, and Mabel and Dipper had a long history, or was it a long future, with him. Wendy had run into him, too. Stan nodded and then told the story of the time-traveler's visit. He added other information.

"The guy talked for an hour. Well, sang, which made him easier to understand. Anywho, the word I got from him was that he could only visit me that one time and then not again until maybe later. Between now and March of 2020, there's some kinda, what's the word, Dipper? The one that means puzzling oddity?"

"Uh, anomaly?" Dipper asked.

Stan nodded. "Yeah, that. There's something about the fabric of time or some whatsis that keeps the time-travel guys from coming back between today and March fifteenth of 2020, except maybe there's one slim chance for later this year. Don't ask me what he meant exactly, I didn't understand most of what he said. But I gotta be Mayor—I'm not supposed to say anything about what I gotta do if I get elected between now and 2020, but trust me, it's nothing illegal or weird. Well, it's peculiar, but nothing beyond the bounds of Gravity Falls' normal strangeness."

He told them the most important point: "Something's gonna happen. Something real big and real bad. And I gotta get the Falls ready. 'Cause if I don't—OK, you guys are adults, or close enough. If I don't, Soos is gonna die."

"Oh, no!" Mabel yelled, jumping up. "We gotta protect him! I'll knit him a bullet-proof sweater! How much steel wool do we have?"

"Nah, that wouldn't help," Stan said. "I know more or less what we—what I—gotta do. When the time comes, you all will have to help me. Together, we can keep that from happening. For some cockamamie reason, it's real, real important to the future that Soos gets through this healthy and happy."

"It's important to us, too," Dipper said.

"Yeah, I agree. Over the years, Soos got to be like a son to me," Stan said, his voice growly but his expression soft. "Now here's what Blandin told me about the next few days. I don't understand it, but Ford says he'll put together some charts and stuff, and I think maybe he knows more about it than he's told me. Anyway, here's what Blandin said."

* * *

Time isn't a straight line, Blendin Blandin had sung to Stan in the clearing where the Cipher effigy had once stood. It's more like a river that twists and winds and has branches that join it and split off from it, and the water is always rolling, flooding, and retreating,, and at unexpected times, the river shifted its course drastically.

Here is what Blendin said: _From the future we can't see the details of the next two weeks. We can only say that if you aren't Mayor of Gravity Falls, we will cease to exist. In some time lines Time Baby will still be here, but he will be vengeful and tyrannical, and the world will suffer. This is the time line in which he matures through what we call the Grumpy-Grump Era and mellows out. It's the best of all possible futures, and without you, we'll lose it._

_If you become Mayor, then a time gate will open briefly in December, and I can revisit you. If you don't there's nothing anyone can do. Your first task is to get yourself elected. If you do that, I'll return to tell you what you have to do in two years. If you don't get elected, there's nothing anyone can do._

* * *

"That sounds awfully coherent for Blendin," Dipper said.

In Stan's office, the phone extension rang.

Stan glanced toward the office door but made no move. "Sheila will get that. Blandin? He was coherent because I got him to sing it. That keeps him from stammering, for your future information, in case you run into him again."

"Good to know," Mabel said. "If we see him, I'll break out the karaoke box!"

"Did Blendin say anything about how Soos—you know?" Dipper asked.

Stan shook his head. "Nah. He said that at this point, it was better if he didn't. Only thing I know, it sort of involves the whole town. If I learn more, I'll tell you."

Teek glanced around. "We'll all help you, Stan. If we manage it, I'll be back from film school in December—"

"Stan?" Sheila opened the door. "The Mayor wants to speak to you."

"I'll get it in the office," Stan said. "You can hang up the upstairs phone. Thanks, honey."

He went into the office, and they could hear him speaking softly on the phone, though they couldn't make out the words. In just a couple of minutes he came back, grinning sourly. "Yeah, I half expected that," he said. "Tyler says I got competition. Couple of people have already told him they're comin' in on Monday to register as candidates."

"Who?" Mabel asked.

"Tyler won't say until it's official. Only thing he told me is—" Stan drew a long breath. "Is that it may be harder than we thought."

* * *


	3. In Opposition

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**3-In Opposition**

Monday morning, 8:30 A.M, and unusually for her, Mabel was up and active and out of the house. She had appointed herself Campaign Manager for Stan's election committee, and she insisted on accompanying him to Tyler's office to learn what was afoot. Mayor Cutebiker's secretary objected, and so did the Mayor, to Tripper's presence.

"Dogs aren't allowed," Tyler said meekly.

"Dog?" Mabel asked, crossing her arms and raising her chin. "I don't see a dog! This is my secretary, Tripper Pines! Say hello, Tripper."

"Wah-woof!" said Tripper. He sat on a chair next to Mabel's, and the spectacles she had put on him (black hornrims, plain glass, no corrective lenses) went a long way to making him look studious and professional. Perhaps not quite secretarial. Few secretaries have pointed upright ears.

"Secretary? He can't take shorthand," Tyler objected weakly.

Mabel looked haughty to the point of actual disdain. "Hah! Hold up your paw, Tripper. See? Shortest hand in the room! And anyway, he doesn't need to write anything down. He's got a photographic memory! Right, Tripper?"

Tripper, who was an extremely smart dog, had learned to respond to that question, "Right, Tripper?" It was one of his tricks. "Rat's ri!" he answered, coming remarkably close to a Scooby impression.

"Come on, Tyler. Let 'em have this," Stanley said. "You're gonna lose the argument anyhow. You know you are."

"Oh, beeswax. All right, all right," Tyler said. He thought for a moment. "I hereby proclaim that for the duration of this here election, Tripper Pines will be an honorary human."

Tripper stiffened and glared at Mabel and then at Tyler in unmistakable pique.

"Tripper, now you let him have this one," Mabel told her dog. "Don't bite."

Growling very softly, Tripper let his bristling hair go limp. But he still had a dogged expression that clearly showed he felt insulted.

Stan leaned back in his chair, not looking happy. "All right, Tyler, you said I had serious competition. Who's it gonna be? Spill it."

"Well," Tyler began in a small voice, "it's somebody we didn't expect. He was born in the Falls, but he went away years and years ago—"

Mabel heard a commotion out in the reception room, and then the door banged open. The harried-sounding receptionist said, "You can't go in, the Mayor's in a meeting—"

"Where Punt wants to go, Punt goes!" a male voice, whining, rasping, and unpleasant, said. "So, you the Podunk Mayor? Quick, I'm a busy man, where do I sign?"

Tyler looked green. "Um—come in. Hey, Myrt, please bring in the book. Now, this is irregular, you understand. Normally I'd tell somebody wanting to run for Mayor who hasn't lived in the Valley for sixty-odd years just to git—git on out of—"

"Nobody tells Punt to get out. Punt tells other people to get out. Shove over, kid. Out of the chair. That goes for the mutt, too."

Tripper growled. The bulky, suspiciously tanned man who had come in loomed over Mabel, dressed in an obviously expensive and yet somehow ill-fitting charcoal-gray suit and wearing a blood-red power tie that reached nearly to his knees. "Hey," Mabel objected, "I was here first!"

"And now I'm here." The stranger jabbed a stubby forefinger at Tripper. "That mutt growls one more time, you're looking down the barrel of a lawsuit, you understand?"

"Give him the chair," Stan told Mabel. "Maybe you better wait out in the reception room. Somebody might get hurt in here."

"Call me if there's any funny business," Mabel muttered, her anger making her voice uncharacteristically serious. She got up with obvious reluctance and led Tripper out.

Behind his desk, Tyler rose to his feet. "Uh, Mr. Punt, this here's Stanley Pines, Justice of the Peace. He's running for Mayor, too. Stanley, this is—"

"Burnwald Punt," the guy said. "I don't shake hands, who needs hick germs? What a crappy chair." It had groaned under his considerable weight as he plopped his fat rear end down. "Crappy office, too. I'll have to redecorate it when I move in. Needs more gold." He turned toward Stan and raised his nose in the air, giving the impression he was looking down instead of across. "Pines. You're the opposition, huh? I ought to win in a walk. Pines? That Jewish?"

Stanley said with surprising gentleness, "Punt. That jerkish?"

"You can be sued," Punt said with a scowl. He turned back toward Tyler. "Come on, come on, hick, where's the book? I don't have all day."

The receptionist came in, bearing a ledger bound in green cloth that looked as if it had been printed in the 1920s, which was only to be expected since it had come into service in 1922. She opened it to the yellowed page marked "CITY MAYORAL ELECTIONS 2018." Stan had already signed it on Line 1.

"Right here," she said, offering a pen and pointing to the space below Stan's signature.

"I don't touch other people's pens," Punt said, waving her away irritably. He produced from his inner jacket pocket a gold pen and from his outer one a disinfectant spray. He spritzed the page. "Let it dry first. Hey, Jewboy, what's with the pillbox hat? You Russian or something?"

"It's a fez," Stan said. "It shows I'm a member of a local lodge, which is a gathering of friends. Friends are people who like you. I doubt if you've ever heard of either word before."

"When I want friends, I buy some," Punt said. He gingerly touched a fingertip to the page, then scrawled his name—the gold pen was evidently a black marker—above Stanley's name, not on the designated Line 2. "When's the election?"

"The town votes a week from tomorrow," Tyler said.

Punt put the small spray can of disinfectant back in his side jacket pocket. "My people will start the campaign at once. Hey, Jewboy, piece of advice: Don't buy any ad space or TV time. It'll just waste your money."

"You're not the boss of me," Stan observed calmly.

Punt gave him about the most unpleasant smile Stan had ever seen. "That's about to change." Punt replaced his pen in his inside pocket and stood up, looked around the office and said, "Really shitty office. That's gotta change." He strode out the door, they heard Tripper yip, and then the outer door closed and Mabel hurried in.

"He tried to kick Tripper!" she said, her voice trembling with fury.

"Did he hurt him?" Stan asked.

"No, Tripper was too quick and got out of the way, but he tried! Grunkle Stan, that guy is going down!"

Stanley laughed out loud. "Honest, Pumpkin, I don't think we gotta worry. I mean, seriously, who'd vote for that yutz?"

* * *

"Who is Burnwald Punt?" Dipper asked.

No one knew, but that could be remedied.

Wendy brought Dipper's laptop down—Monday, the Shack wasn't open—and they clustered at the dining-room table as Dipper Goggled the name.

"There's something," Wendy said, pointing at the screen.

"Not on a major database," Dipper said. "It's on Wickedpedia."

He clicked the link.

"Hey, Dip! We can't all see the screen," Stan grumbled. "Read what it says."

Squinting at the screen, Dipper said, "OK, um—here goes."

* * *

_PUNT, Burnwald Jay, b 1947 in Gravity Falls, Oregon. His family left that town in 1950, moving to upstate New York, where Punt's father Fearmont Punt became a real-estate investor and speculator, specializing in ripping off renters in the many apartment houses he built or bought._

_Growing up in Onaturell, NY, Punt was educated at Dotheboys Military Academy, Parlous, Maryland; Ripumov College, Wildsof, Pennsylvania; Warfratt School of Business, Towndump, Pennsylvania. In 1990, Punt inherited five hundred million dollars from his father, Fearmont Punt, who had made a fortune in fortune cookies, real-estate, construction, and—it is rumored—by money laundering and investing in Mob activities. The younger Punt went into development and built hotels and casinos, most of which went bankrupt within a year of opening. However, Punt always seemed to have money and married and divorced a string of three women, none of them American citizens. By 1995 he declared himself insolvent, though he continued to live the life of a millionaire._

_He became a TV star in 2000._

* * *

"Takes a special kinda talent to go broke owning a casino," Stan said, interrupting. "The odds always favor the house. I mean, a dummy could make money owning one of them! Where were these casinos?"

"Doesn't say yet," Dipper responded. "Maybe it comes in later, or I'll try a more thorough search when we finish this, OK?"

"Yeah, what TV show?" Mabel asked. "America's Nastiest Bachelors?"

"He wasn't a bachelor," Dipper said. "It says he married three times. Let me finish the article."

* * *

 _The developers of a reality show,_ Clawing to the Top, _made a deal with Punt—(_ "I remember that show," Mabel said. "It was stupid, and I never watched it.")— _to front the show, posing as the country's wealthiest man. Contestants vied to make "deals" with businesses, competing with Punt, who always "won." The show actually was scripted, not real-life, and the contestants were all hired actors. Evidently Punt was not independently rich but depended on a huge salary from the television show._

_Despite this, Punt went on to "brand" himself, licensing his name and likeness to a vast assortment of commercial items, from cigars to men's apparel to girdles to adult diapers to automobile oil filters, mousetraps, and sports equipment; also he endorsed or "produced" luxury items (he actually did not own the production companies, but accepted royalties for his endorsement) which included wines, expensive foods, and business schools. From his television royalties and his endorsement deals, he is estimated to have recouped the fortune he had inherited but lost._

_In 2006 the television show, plagued with falling ratings, folded. During the run of the show, Punt had leveraged the income he received to take out loans with a variety of banks, building the Golden Fleece Casino and Resort in Atlantic City, New Jersey; the Crooked Links Golf Course in Virginia (and five other golf courses across the country); and he became a major partner in the Golden Shower Casino in Las Vegas._

* * *

"Yeah," Stan said, "I remember those gambling joints. I checked out both casinos, but they were obviously crooked, so I took my dough elsewhere. Plus, the neon lights he insisted on puttin' up everywhere bugged me."

* * *

_By 2009, both of his casino-resorts and half of his golf courses had gone bankrupt and were forfeited to purchasers who also failed to make them profitable. Recently, Punt has relied on his licensing efforts for income, though he is reportedly looking into a political career._

* * *

"That's all there is," Dipper said.

"He's a big poop-head," Mabel complained. "A dog-hater. Right, Tripper?"

"Rat's ri," Tripper responded.

Stan grinned complacently. "From the sound of that article, nobody likes this guy Punt. I think he ought to be a pushover."

The door opened. "Stanley," said the newcomer, "I would definitely not bet on that."

They all turned.

It was Grunkle Ford. And his expression was grim.

* * *


	4. Skull Session

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**4-Skull Session**

Stanford drew up a chair next to his brother. He wore a serious expression, and he said, "Stanley, you know I support you as a brother, and I want the best for you, so please pay attention to me when I ask you to withdraw from this stupid race."

Grunkle Stan stared at him for a moment. "Thank you for your support, Ford. But seriously?" He cleared his throat and in an uncanny imitation of Ford's voice, he added, "Stanford, you know I tolerate you, and I want the best for you, too, so please listen to me when I say no way, José."

"Dr. Pines, dude," Soos said from the sidelines, sounding both surprised and delighted, "Is your, like, middle name José? Are we like hermanos? That is so cool!"

"Go fix something, Soos," Stan said, rubbing his eyes with forefinger and thumb.

Soos adjusted his cap—on off days, he wore his brown question-mark trucker's hat instead of the Mr. Mystery fez—and said, "Oh, yeah, the animatronics are doin' that thing again. Thanks for reminding me!"

"Stanley—" Stanford began.

"Shush," Stan said, holding up a hand and nodding toward his former handyman. They watched Soos don his tool belt and set out softly singing, 'Gonna work with electricity, doo da doo, guess I'll get shocked again . . ." His voice faded, and they heard him fire up the golf cart outside.

The sound faded as Soos puttered down the Mystery Trail toward the audio-animatronic attraction he had installed a couple of years earlier. "Now may I talk?" Stanford asked.

"You got the floor, Poindexter," Stanley said.

"Thank you. Mr. Punt is moving fast. I saw a team of workmen putting up posters for his campaign downtown as I drove over, and they've already erected an enormous double-sided billboard next to the highway out of town."

Mabel said, "So he's a fast worker, so what? We can paper this town with flyers for Grunkle Stan! Paper it, I say! The Copier Store will work twenty-six hours a day. Every man, woman, boy, girl, dog, kitty, and Gnome will help us spread the word! Give us some money, Grunkle Stan!"

"Cool down," Stan told her. "I want to hear what my genius brother has to say."

Ford sat back in his chair, elbows resting on the table, and tented his fingers. He frowned in concentration. "Very well. I missed this Punt person's career—I was elsewhere in the Multiverse all those years and until today I'd never even heard of him—but Fiddleford was here. He happened to see Punt earlier today and came to me in something of a panic."

"Huh?" Stanley asked. "Why? The guy's a fat, sloppy wuss, I'd say. Betcha even McGucket could take him in a fair fight. He'd probably cry like a baby if—"

"Stanley," Stanford said, "Fiddleford was genuinely shaken. He had an unpleasant brush with the Punt organization not long before he came here to be my research assistant, and it's still a sore point with him. Briefly, he was working on computing systems—you recall he began his career as a—"

"Computer geek, yeah," Stan said impatiently. "So what?"

"Well, briefly, before he fixated on trying to develop a portable computer, Fiddleford had perfected a system of predictive algorithms to aid a company's research department to predict outcomes given a range of variables up to two hundred and fifty."

For a moment Stanley stared at his twin expectantly. When Ford did not continue, Stanley asked, "And what's that in English? Anybody know?"

Dipper cleared his throat. "It's like if you're ordering merchandise for the Shack, Grunkle Stan. You feed into the computer information about the price point, the quality of the merchandise, and the program draws from information stored in national databanks regarding consumer buying and travel habits and so on to tell you whether it's a good idea to buy—oh, say, keychains—and how many you can expect to sell at the price you're asking. It's a marketing program."

"Very good, Mason," Ford said, smiling.

Stan shrugged. "Program, shmogram. Eh, I got a gut that does all that. So what did Old Man McGucket—"

"Young man back then," Stanford said.

"Young Man McGucket, then. Whatever. He invented this program thingy, so what?"

"Mr. Punt's father became interested in it," Stanford said. "When Fiddleford was trying to perfect the software, he asked for beta testers, and that was written up in a business magazine. Punt sent his son to Palo Alto to look at what the program could do. That was when Burnwald Punt was around thirty, and still an apprentice to his father. Punt met with Fiddleford for a briefing and asked if the software could be specialized to predict the best buys in real estate—whether a derelict house, for example, was worth being restored and whether it would be salable—and Fiddleford spent a month altering the algorithms to do just that.

"Burnwald Punt returned and Fiddleford ran a series of demonstrations that showed promise. Punt offered Fiddleford a hundred thousand dollars—far less than its prospective value, but far more money than Fiddleford had ever seen at one time. Punt told him he'd have to take all the material back East for his father's inspection and approval. He offered Fiddleford an option fee of a thousand dollars and had him sign an agreement. Fiddleford was excited by the prospect of success and signed.

"Briefly, that was the last Fiddleford heard of the deal. When he attempted to patent his software, he application was denied. Punt, Senior, had already patented it. For weeks Fiddleford tried to get through to the company to insist on his payment of a hundred thousand dollars.

"He didn't get the money. Though it was couched in abstruse legal terms, what Fiddleford thought was an agreement for a thousand-dollar option against the prospect of a hundred-thousand-dollar investment, it provided for an outright flat-fee sale. He no longer owned his own creation. And when he expressed his confusion and displeasure—"

Dipper interrupted: "Let me guess. A team of tough lawyers showed up and threatened him."

Stanford nodded. "Poor Fiddleford, brilliant but unsophisticated. The visit jarred him and sent him into an early depression. Stanley, that's the standard operating procedure of the Punts. The son's just like the father. He is—well, 'litigious' puts it mildly. He's been the plaintiff in thousands of lawsuits. And he has a terrible reputation of refusing to pay employees and companies that contract with him."

"Two can play at that game," Stanley said. "I can sue him."

"That's been tried repeatedly. Nobody comes out ahead," his brother said. "If you win a judgment against him, he simply never pays, and his legal team extends the cases with postponements and countersuits until his opponents have no money left and have to abandon the case. Even worse, Punt's PR team then hounds victims, smearing their reputations, harassing them—I've found estimates that he's been responsible for twenty or more suicides."

"That's terrible!" Wendy said.

"Yes," Ford agreed, "but Punt clearly has a nasty, obstinate streak. He relishes crushing his opponents—not just winning a case, but making their lives miserable even after they're no longer a threat."

"Hey, Brainiac," Stan said, "all you're really tellin' me is this Punt guy deserves to lose."

"What I'm saying is that even if you defeat him, he'll find ways to torture you afterward. Is the game worth the candle?" Stanford asked.

"Now you've lost me," Mabel complained. "How big is the candle? And what kind of game? Because if it's pachisi, that's not even worth a birthday candle, but if it's Truth or Dare—"

"It's only an expression," Stanford said. "It means that it's more trouble than it's worth to try to oppose Punt. After all, in the grand scheme, Mayor of Gravity Falls is not a very august office. We're only a small town, and the Mayor has little power, and that little doesn't extend beyond the county limits—"

"Wait," Wendy said. "Let's think about this. If that's true, then how come Punt even wants the office? What's in it for him?"

"Atta girl," Stan said approvingly. "Wendy's nailed it, Poindexter. I knew it the second the guy showed up. It's a con."

"I don't follow you," Stanford said.

In a faintly irritable tone, Stanley said, "It's a scam, it's a con job, it's a swindle. The guy's playin' some angle. I don't know yet what it is, but I'm not gonna let him pull it."

"We're behind you a thousand per cent!" Mabel said. Tripper woofed agreement. "nobody messes with our family or our town, right, Grunkle Stan?"

Stan scratched his nose. "Little bit, yeah, but not that so much. Mainly, there's not enough room in this town for two scam artists."

* * *

They huddled for an hour or so in a strategy session, until finally—and reluctantly—even Ford agreed they should try to discover, in Wendy's phrase, what was in it for Punt.

That afternoon they spread out. In trying to discover what Punt could possibly be up to, they had one big advantage: They knew everyone in Gravity Falls. Dipper and Wendy took on Toby Determined, Susan Wentworth, Bud Gleeful, and half a dozen other locals, while Mabel interviewed the staff and clientele of the Skull Fracture—her visits there were the calmest times of the year for them, and everybody somehow felt protective of her.

Teek visited teachers from the high school, as well as the families of some of his classmates. Stan went to a called meeting of the Chamber of Commerce. Lorena met with members of the Women's Circle, and so on.

Meanwhile, Stanford—whose social skills even he admitted, were not on a par with those of his brother—would mobilize the resources of the Agency—the Guys in Black, as they were informally known—to probe the Punt business operations. "We normally deal only with the paranormal," he acknowledged, "but my agents have developed top-notch investigative skills."'

However, since the candidates would meet for a debate on Friday, they didn't have a whole lot of time. All of them felt a certain urgency.

Each of them discovered some, um, interesting facts. The blurry shape of Punt's career and activities began to come into sharper focus.

And when they met after dinner in the Shack, they began to get at least a notion of what might be up behind the scenes.

* * *


	5. Department of Dirty Tricks

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**5-Department of Dirty Tricks**

"What do you think, man?" Wendy asked as they headed back to the Shack for the evening's debriefing and strategy session. They were walking to the spot near the library where Dipper had parked.

They had talked about Punt and his family to a whole group of people. Some of them had known Punt, Senior, and even remembered when he and his wife had a baby and moved away.

At best, they had neutral memories of the guy. At worst, they didn't trust him.

Disturbingly, many of them had met Punt as he went around the town, finding a house to rent (from Preston Northwest) and evidently reconnoitering the countryside. Most of these remembered him from TV and thought it would be real exciting to have the star of a reality TV show settle in Gravity Falls.

"Who knows?" Susan Wentworth had said. "Some of us might get discovered!"

Others—well, they had instantly distrusted the man. "Mighty ugly customer, if you ask me," said Toby Determined.

As they walked to the car, Dipper thought it over. "I'd say it's a toss-up," he said. "I mean, to me it looks like this guy Punt has a real suspicious history, but let's face it—Grunkle Stan is Grunkle Stan. People will remember how he got elected to the office six years back and then instantly got disqualified, and I'll bet they remember all that negative stuff more than they do all the good things Stan's done for the town."

"Yeah, people tend to remember the negatives," Wendy agreed with a sigh as they reached the Library and the car. She got into the passenger seat of Dipper's Land Runner and did a double take.

Dipper was getting into the driver's seat. "What do you think—" he began.

"About dinner?" she asked, cutting him off. He glanced toward her, and she reached to grasp his wrist.

— _Dip, not out loud. What the heck is this doojigger?_ She pointed at the cigarette lighter It had never been used, and Dipper had hardly even noticed it before.

_What? The lighter?_

— _Don't think so, man._ _The handle's too big. I noticed it right off. And the real one has a white ring around the rim. This one doesn't. Did you lock the car when we parked?_

_No. Not in Gravity Falls. Do you think that's some kind of—bomb? Bug?_

— _If I gotta guess, I'd say a bug. Let's ask Ford to look at it. Say something about dinner. Don't make 'em suspicious._

"There we go," Dipper said. "So, what about dinner? Want to eat out?"

"Not in the mood," she said. "Let's just go back home and throw something together. Maybe this weekend we can go outside the Valley to a restaurant. There's a new one I'd like to try in Mossy Run."

Dipper started the car and pulled out of the slot. "Sounds good to me. I'm tired, anyway."

"Yeah, shopping wears me out, too," Wendy said, though they certainly had not been shopping.

They chatted about unimportant things on the way home. Before they reached the Shack, they stopped at Ford's house. He was home, and they went inside and Dipper asked him about the possibility of a bug.

"I'll call Fiddleford," Ford said. "He'll bring a sweeper. This is interesting, and also troubling. Come with me."

They followed him to his compact office-lab—just a bare-bones lab because he still maintained the extensive one located on at least three basement levels beneath the Shack. Dipper had reason to think there was a fourth at the very bottom, but Ford had never confirmed that.

"Be seated, please," Ford said, shutting the door and flipping what looked like two light switches.

Ford stood with a finger against his lips for silence. The overhead light came on—the room had no windows—and after a moment, an artificial voice said, "Scan complete. No electronic intrusion detected."

"There," Ford said, sitting behind his desk. "The room is essentially a Faraday cage, with some additional upgraded security shielding. We may talk here. Tell me about what you suspect and why."

"Wendy noticed it," Dipper said. "I would totally have overlooked it."

Wendy shrugged. "I like cars, or I would've overlooked it. The handle of the cigarette lighter had been changed. It was bigger and looked different. Somebody switched it out."

"You would make an excellent agent," Ford said. He picked up the phone receiver and punched in a quick-dial number. However, it did not connect with Fiddleford McGucket's phone. Instead, Ford punched in a long code sequence. A green light on the phone lit up, and then Ford spoke into the receiver: "Fiddleford McGucket, over a level-5 secure line."

"You got anti-bugging on the phone, too?" Wendy asked.

"A necessity for someone working with the Agency. Hello, my friend. Could you come visit me, right now? Good. Listen carefully. Bring your big broom. Take normal precautions and note anyone following you."

Ford listened to the reply and said, "See you soon." He hung up. "I hate to involve Fiddleford in this. He has issues stemming from his years of impairment and can be a bit paranoid."

Dipper gave Wendy a quick sideways smile. Ford calling someone paranoid was a little like a Gnome calling a Manotaur short.

Ford didn't notice and said, "If someone has indeed placed a listening device in your automobile, Mason—by the way, was it locked?"

"No," Dipper said. "I never lock it in town. I do when I park on the campus."

"Or in Portland," Wendy said. "Plus, I installed some anti-theft devices. Kill switch, a NoJack, stuff like that. But assuming this was a pro job it wouldn't have mattered if it had been locked. I mean, I can unlock a locked car door so fast nobody passing by would even notice, and I'm not a professional car thief."

Ford nodded. "I'm positive you're correct, and more than likely this was a pro-level job. You're sure the switch of lighters was made while you were downtown?"

"I wouldn't have noticed," Dipper said.

"I can't be a hundred per cent on this," Wendy added. "But I think I'd have noticed it first off when we drove into town. It just jumped out at me when we got in the car to come home."

"I'm going to initiate a surveillance program," Ford said. "Don't tell Soos or Stanley about this. I have our property plus the Mystery Shack grounds covered. Oh, also I would advise you to be discreet within a hundred-yard radius of the Shack."

"Um—discreet?" Dipper asked.

"Yes, if you, ah, have affectionate exchanges, be sure you don't do so outside the Shack, unless you're fairly far away from it."

"How about our bedroom?" Dipper asked.

"I will arrange for certain areas not to be covered."

"Seriously?" Dipper asked, his voice a little angry. "You really bugged the Shack?"

"Merely as a precaution," Ford said. "After the events of Weirdmageddon—and even more after I assumed leadership of the Agency—I felt it might be a necessary step to take. I assure you, I have never yet eavesdropped on anyone or recorded any footage of anyone—in the Mystery Shack or in Stanley's house or mine."

The doorbell rang, and Ford stood. "That will be Fiddleford. You stay here, please. I'll go and explain what we need."

When he left them, Wendy said, "You OK, Dip?"

"Little upset," he said. "I guess I understand why Grunkle Ford would want to put up spy cameras or—or whatever, but I'd hate for some of our time together to be recorded."

"I think we're safe," Wendy said. "I mean, Dr. P isn't what I'd call kinky!"

They waited for about twenty minutes before the door opened, and Fiddleford and Ford came in. Dipper stood so that the old man could take his chair. "Thanks, Dipper," McGucket said. "Been on my feet most of the day. Here's your spy-a-ma-hickey." He tossed the lighter to Dipper, who fumbled it, but Wendy made a quick retrieve.

"Was it what we thought it was?" Wendy asked.

McGucket, who looked much better than he had back when he was the town kook—beard trimmed neatly, clothes not untypical for a professor off-duty (tan pants, blue work shirt with a pocket protector and a row of pens, even black sneakers—for years, his long experience of going barefoot had made him able to bear only sandals)—crossed his bony legs and nodded. "Yes-sir-ree. Real pro job, too. Super-sensitive microphone, proximity trigger—you didn't even have to talk to activate the thing, jest be close. Also, I think it could read your cell phone info."

"Why in the world?" Wendy asked.

"Somebody a-snoopin'," Fiddleford said. "What it does, it stores any talk it hears and then when it's in range of a receiver an' gits a signal, it shoots all the recordings to the owner in a microshot. Jist two seconds, it can send maybe twenty hours of records."

"Who did it?" Dipper asked.

"Dunno. Somebody that's got enough money to splurge about a quarter-million on developing it."

"We think we can discover the receiver," Ford said. "My guess is that it will be mobile—built into a vehicle. The broadcast range of the device is not great, perhaps a matter of thirty yards or so. A car or panel truck with the requisite hardware could simply drive past the Shack on the highway and receive all the recordings the device has made. We know the frequency, and we have the device. Someone could drive around town with the lighter in a charging mode. The instant that it activates and transmits, we can get a read on the direction and range of the receiver, which should make identifying it trivially easy."

"Do it," Wendy said.

"We'll need your help."

* * *

It was one of the strangest things Dipper and Wendy had ever done. They sat for fifteen minutes and had an inane conversation, merely so the device (which Fiddleford had temporarily activated) would record what they said.

It wasn't overly exciting. An excerpt:

"Dip, what do you think about spaghetti?"

"Mm, I don't know. Mabel always loves pasta, but we had the casserole the other day."

"Oh, yeah, the casserole. I thought too much cheese."

"I like cheese."

"So do I, but there's a limit. Hey, how about instead of spaghetti, we grill kebabs?"

"What would you want on them?"

And so on. It wasn't scripted, and at times they almost got the giggles from the dumb things they said, but they recorded a quarter-hour of extremely banal remarks. Then Fiddleford forced a close and thanked them.

Ford took the bugged lighter. "I have a graduate assistant who's staying on campus this summer to do research. He's trustworthy—the Agency has given him a thorough vetting because we're thinking of recruiting him—and he'll be glad to drive round the Valley taking videos. He won't know that the works from the lighter will be built into the camera equipment I'll provide him, and we'll get a reading and a trace if it transmits. I'll get on that tonight." He looked at his watch. "I'll call and order pizzas. We'll meet for dinner up in the Shack in half an hour."

As they stood, Dipper kidded him: "Grunkle Ford, you don't know if those pizzas might be bugged."

Ford gave him a straight-faced reply: "You don't think I'd let them into the house without scanning them, do you?"

* * *


	6. Money Talks

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**6-Money Talks**

Being driven around the Valley in a gold-colored current-model Roylls-Rolse did little to make Burnwald J. Punt inconspicuous, but then he loathed inconspicuousness. Give him an adoring crowd, give him fans, give him people asking for his autograph that he could snub, and he was happy. Take them away, and he was a grouch.

Punt sometimes got the odd feeling that if no one noticed him, he would cease to exist. He had no friends, true, but he surrounded himself with people who constantly, carefully reassured him. That was enough. And the beauty part was that he could fire them for no reason other than whim.

They had cruised nearly every street in the little town, and now they were driving along Montrose Street, not a long one, but the site of almost all the better houses. Not the absolute best, that was the old Northwest Mansion on its damned hill. Somebody else owned it now, he hadn't bothered to learn who. It didn't matter. It would belong to him soon enough.

They were halfway down Montrose. "This is a dump," Punt said to his driver, Mick Mitchell.

"Yes, sir," Mitchell responded immediately. "Just as you say."

"Ever been here before, Muckel?"

Without bothering to correct his boss's mistake—if he called you Mud, your name was Mud, no question—Mitchell said, "In this town? No, sir, this is my first time."

"Well, you can kiss it goodbye. Go slow around the corner there."

"Slow it is, sir," Mitchell said, braking and then cautiously proceeding at twenty miles per hour. "Are we looking for anything in particular, Mr. Punt, sir?"

"Shut up."

Mitchell did not reply. He had worked for Punt for nearly six years. For a Punt driver, that was a record. Most of them had lasted only a few months, and not just because of the tantrums and yelling from the back seat. Somehow, sitting there at the wheel, you got the feeling that right behind you was something nasty. Not exactly human.

You half expected one day to get out and open the back door for Mr. Punt only to see grinning up at you one of those Stephen King-type evil clowns. Or maybe some shambling eldritch horror that would make H.P. Lovecraft hurl his cookies.

Ignore it, drive him anywhere he wanted, while understanding any problem, any mistake belonged to you. Collect your paycheck and deposit it quick and hope that you could get through four more years until you were sixty-five and your pension kicked in. . . .

Punt yelled, "Stop the damn car!"

"Yes, Mr. Punt."

Foot on brake, engine idling, and my, aren't we all happy?

Not Punt. "Well, you idiot? Put it in park!"

_Well, sir, that would block the lane, and this is a residential street, pretty narrow, and we might get a ticket._

Mitchell left that unspoken and put the car in park. "Do you wish to get out, sir?"

His boss snorted. "I'll tell you when I want to get out, moron. What do you think of that house to our left, the one on the hill?"

_Well, sir, it appears to be a three-story Dutch Colonial frame house in excellent repair, recently painted a pleasing ivory, a neat sunroom to the left, evidently a livable attic on the third floor, although those two quarter-circle windows on either side of the chimney are unnervingly suggestive of that Amityville one, but as a house, it's quite nice, roomy lot well-groomed lawn, probably worth about four, five hundred thousand, expensive for this little town._

Instead of any of that, Mitchell meekly asked, "What should I think of it, sir?"

Grunting, Punt said, "That's my birthplace, Muckett. The house of my father." Somehow the way he pronounced "father" gave it overtones of "my dog's droppings."

"I see," Mitchell said.

"Shut up. Don't tell me you see, you understand, because you don't. Nobody understands what that damn place means. Too many old secrets in it, Muckson. But I'm going to fix that. By the time I finish there won't be a living soul in this goddam valley. There won't even be a goddam valley. Muckford, get my damn staff on it. I want to know who owns that place now. I want dirt on that Jew, Pines. If they can't find it, make some."

"Very good, sir."

"What the hell are you waiting for, you imbecile? Drive me to my hotel!"

_Four more years, just four more years, God give me strength to do this for just four more years. . . ._

* * *

The staff of Punt Enterprises was having trouble. Punt wasn't there. He wanted them to act, and he wasn't there to tell them what they were doing wrong (everything, usually). They wanted to do their jobs, but they had a deathly fear of displeasing him.

They did what any staff would do. Out in Manhattan, on the Executive Floor of Punt Pointe (at 125 floors, he advertised it as the tallest in town, though truth to tell, the elevators went straight from ground floor to the thirty-first floor, floors 2-30 not existing. There were elevator key slots for them, but they didn't work. Punt had just skipped building those imaginary twenty-nine floors) they met at the long table (cherrywood, 33 feet by eight feet, cost $60,000, of which Punt had paid $5,000 before claiming it was structurally deficient and stiffing the supplier).

For thirty minutes they stared at each other, no one willing to say anything because anything anyone said would be reported to Punt within minutes of the meeting breaking up.

That was the Punt way of business. Trust no one and treat even your best employees like dirt.

Finally, the Vice-President in charge of outsourcing cleared his throat. Two dozen pens made a note of that, though they ranged from "Vilkerson may have cancer" to "Vilkerson said 'Umm' instead of 'Ahem' and may have broken company rules."

"Does anyone here," asked the wretched Vilkerson, who looked as though he subsisted on a diet of old ledgers soaked in the tears of debtors, "know anything about this town of, ah, Gravity Falls?"

Five minutes ticked by before a junior executive in Marketing raised a timid hand. "Uh, I believe it's the town where Mr. Punt was born, sir."

Vilkerson's face creased like a folded overdue bill. "Well, of course we all know that, Mr. Fink. That hardly bears mentioning, does it?"

Everyone else either scratched through Fred Fink's name on the agenda or doodled little skulls beside it.

When no one else said anything, Vilkerson sighed. "I suggest we find a reliable, inexpensive private investigator in the town and hire him to look into the place and its people."

"Or her," corrected Letitia Leenover. She had been one of Mr. Punt's proteges for a short time, and now she was on the Board, her exact title nebulous.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Vilkerson.

"You said 'hire him.' Women can be private investigators, too."

Not a pen moved. One did not rat on any woman in Mr. Punt's, well, employ is probably the best word. The guys were fair game, but women were the fair sex. So to speak.

"Very well," Vilkerson said in a tone so neutral it would make beige blush. "I'll have my assistant make the necessary calls."

Letitia had her phone out. "I can save you the trouble. There's only one private investigation firm in Gravity Falls, Oregon. It's the Late Owl Investigation Services. Shall I call it?"

"On speaker," said Gunter, who was getting above himself.

"One moment," Vilkerson said coldly. "All opposed to the idea?"

Of the twenty at the table, no one voted.

"All in favor?"

Two hands—Gunter's and Letitia's. Good. Two to blame.

"Very well, Ms Leenover, place the call, but—" he lifted a warning finger—"do not commit until we agree on fees and so forth."

"It won't matter," Turbitt pointed out. "Mr. Punt never pays, anyway."

"Yes, but he expects us to exercise fiscal responsibility," Vilkerson snapped. "If he's not paying for something, he wants to not pay for the best."

"This is the only private eye in the town," the elderly Ms Wistfort said. "Therefore the best, no?"

"Place the call," Vilkerson said.

Letitia used the table conference phone. Two rings, and then a woman's recorded voice said, "You have reached the Late Owl Investigation Services office. If you are a current client, press one. If you wish to retain our services, press two. If you—"

Impatiently, Vilkerson leaned over and stabbed the keypad with an outstretched finger.

"One moment, please, and I will connect you."

For about twenty seconds the phone played "The Girl from Ipanema" at them.

Then a man's voice, tough-sounding, said, "You need a detective?"

"We may," Vilkerson said. "We represent the board of Punt Enterprises, Incorporated. You are no doubt familiar with Burnwald Punt?"

"Rich guy, used to be a reality-TV star, thinking about running for Mayor here?"

"Uh—yes," said Vilkerson, blinking.

"You want him shadowed?"

"No, no, no!" said Vilkerson.

"You want me to do some snooping for him?"

"Ah—yes,"

"OK, friend, ten thousand up front. I get a thousand a day and expenses. If the job doesn't run that long, I'll refund the change, less twenty per cent."

"We'd like to negotiate—"

"So long, and good luck finding somebody."

"No, wait! Er—half now, half—"

"No way," the voice said.

"But why? Surely for a client like Mr. Punt—"

"Nuh-uh. Like you said, I'm familiar with his reputation. I'll give you the company routing info, you electronically transfer ten thousand, and then we'll talk."

Beedy, in Accounting, held up a legal pad on which he had printed in big letters _CHICKEN FEED. GIVE IT TO HIM._

"I'll arrange that immediately," Vilkerson said. "Mr. Beedy—"

Beedy had his cell phone out, clickety clack. He punched a button and nodded.

Vilkerson said, "All right, you can check with your bank—"

"Just did. What am I looking for?"

"Any information that will help defeat this man, uh—Stanley Pines, who's also running for mayor. And any dark secrets the leading men and women of the town would not like to be publicized. It's, ah, it's—"

"Blackmail stuff."

Vilkerson's bloodless smile crooked his mouth again. "Blackmail is an ugly word."

"No, it's not. It's fluid and soothing. It's the l's and the m that do it. Gangrene, now, that's pretty ugly. Gag. Phlegm. Smegma. Worst of all, moist. Blackmail's not so bad."

"Very well!" Vilkerson snapped. You will report to me. Start to work immediately, we don't have much time. Oh, and for the record, what's your name?"

"Spate. Nat Spate. And yes, yes, I am. If Mr. Punt doesn't like it, too bad."

"What do you mean?"

Spate said, "I mean I'm Jewish."

* * *


	7. Politicking

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**7-Politicking**

The first time Stan had run for Mayor, he'd been in his super ultra hyper pinchpenny phase. That summer, Mabel had drawn his campaign posters, Soos had copied them at the copier store, and Soos, Mabel, Dipper, and maybe Wendy had posted them all around town. Hard to tell, because that same summer Wendy was in her hyper ultra super lazy mode, and there's a chance that the stack of fifty posters might have wound up at the bottom of her sock drawer.

That was a more innocent time, and a crazier election, one that Stan technically won but actually lost because he was disqualified. A nosy reporter had discovered that Stan had a long string of misdemeanor convictions as well as some prison time on his record (he had not learned about the Colombian episode, though). In addition, he had ignored filling out the required paperwork to be a qualified candidate. Indeed, of all the ones who'd run, only Tyler had gone through the pages, faithfully answering all the questions and initialing the ones he'd completed.

Amazingly, though, before the disqualification Stan had won the election without spending more than a couple of bucks, which suited him fine. Back then he had been like a baby bird's song—cheap, cheap, cheap.

However, the years had mellowed Stan, along with his uncanny success at the gambling tables and his having exploited a fairly substantial gold find, plus whatever mysterious loot it was he came back from the Arctic with. Now that he wasn't socking away every dime into repairing the Portal, he had accumulated healthy savings.

Oh, Stan wouldn't call himself "rich" (lest the tax collectors overheard), but he and Sheila were comfortably well-off. And over the years his tight fist actually loosened its grasp on money.

Therefore, this time around Stan paid for TV ads. The local station didn't charge all that much for airtime, anyway (thirty dollars for a thirty-second ad run three times), and with his experience at hawking his questionable goods as a TV pitchman, he recorded half a dozen political spots in one morning.

Dipper had written the scripts—well, not real scripts, more guidelines, on the lines of "say something good you plan to do about education"—and Teek did the videography after Mabel chose the sets. Sheila dressed her husband—two of the ads called for his black Mr. Mystery suit, two for a nice light gray pinstripe, and two for a more casual fawn-colored sport jacket. Grudgingly, Stan allowed Sheila also to put a little makeup on him.

"Better you than Mabel," he told his wife. "She'd have me looking like a refugee from Bozo's Circus. Don't tell her I said that."

The ads were short—half a minute each—and Stan did all but one in a single take. This one is typical:

* * *

_[EXTERIOR. STAN IS AT THE OVERLOOK BEND OF THE ROAD, THE FALLS IN THE BACKGROUND. IT'S A SUNNY DAY, AND HE WEARS DARK SLACKS AND A TAN SPORT JACKET]_

_STAN: Friends, you all know me. I'm Stanley Pines, and I'm running for Mayor. I have to say, I love this town and its people. You deserve the best, and I promise you'll get it. We have clean air and water here—and I vow to protect them. As long as I'm Mayor, we'll keep a strict check on water and air pollution and protect our beautiful environment. Come clean with me, Stan Pines, and vote for me on Tuesday. I'm Stanley Pines, and I approve this message._

* * *

That contrasted rather sharply with the ads that Punt made—a couple dozen of them, some of them obviously done days before Punt showed up in the Falls. On roughly the same topic, here's what Punt had to say:

* * *

_[INTERIOR. A RITZY OFFICE, HEAVY ON GOLD. BURNWALD J. PUNT SITS AT AN ENORMOUS DESK WITH AN AMERICAN FLAG IN THE BACKGROUND. HIS EYES MOVE AS HE READS FROM A TELEPROMPTER]_

_PUNT: You remember my TV show. It got top ratings, incredible ratings, no one ever saw ratings like those before. I'm Burnwald J. Punt, and I've returned to Gravity Falls, where I was born, to become Mayor. Let me tell you why you're gonna vote for me, OK? You got stuff here, trees, ores, water, you could be selling. You could be getting rich, but you're not. Elect me, and I'll do what your do-nothing Mayor can't do, he's a nothing, a disaster. I'll make you rich! Vote for Punt and make a beautiful dollar! Make Gravity Falls Rich! MGFR!_

* * *

Punt's ads were much louder than Stan's, and overall, though Punt's saturation was better—he bought back-to-back blocks and ran them twenty hours a day—Stan's seemed more popular. "You don't have to turn off the volume when they're on," some people said.

So far, so good—but mid-week, Punt's approach changed. He went on the attack:

* * *

_[EXTERIOR. PUNT STANDS IN FRONT OF THE MYSTERY SHACK. HE IS WEARING A BLACK SUIT, LONG RED TIE, AND A RED TRUCKER'S CAP WITH MGFR EMBROIDERED ON IT]_

_Punt: Listen to me if you know what's good for you. My opponent is terrible, a disaster. He ran this place for thirty years. He lost money, can you believe it? What a shmuck! I've just learned that all the exhibits he put in here are fakes. He's as phony as they are! He's got no plan, he's a grifter, he's a cheat. If you put Stan Pines in office, you're crazy. He'll set fire to the forests and fill the water with Agent Orange. Remember these facts and vote for me, Burnwald J. Punt, for Mayor. MGFR!_

* * *

After that little epic ran, Dipper went to Stan, concerned. "I was in the barber shop placing some leaflets when it came on the TV," he said. "The guys there are saying that Punt's making some good points in those attack ads."

Wendy said, "My Dad tells me some of his employees are worrying about the forest burning and them losing their jobs."

Mabel added, "Grunkle Stan, maybe you should run some attack ads, too. Say that Punt's a poop-head and nobody likes him and he smells funny and besides, he's mean."

Stanley switched off the TV—another Punt ad was beginning, the one that accused Stan of exploiting child labor (it included still photos of two waifs in ragged clothes labeled "Mabel Pines" and "Dipper Pines", though the pictures were of two kids playing Want and Ignorance in the town's last production of _A Christmas Carol)._ Punt also put up some shots of Gnomes performing a dance in the Shack and claimed, "Pines says these are Gnomes! There's no such thing! These are obviously toddlers forced at gunpoint to work for free! Elect me and I'll protect your kids!"

"Go on the attack," Dipper urged his great-uncle.

Shaking his head, Stan said, "Meh, people know me. They won't buy all these lies. I prefer to run on my record. Which, by the way, the Government expunged after Weirdmageddon."

"Stan," Wendy said, "come on, man! I mean, that stuff he's saying might not be true, but it's not hardly all false, either. You did make Mabes and Dip work for you that first summer for almost nothing."

"It was good experience!" Mabel insisted. "You can't buy that!"

Wendy looked miserable.

Dipper asked, "What's wrong, Wen?"

Grimacing, she said, "Tell you later."

Oh, right, it was the time of month that was the problem. Wendy always toughed it out, but for three days she would have cramps and nausea. "Why don't you go lie down?" he asked her.

"I'll be OK. But seriously, Stan, you've gotta hit back. How does this guy know about stuff like Dipper and Mabel working when they were twelve and the Gnomes and all?"

"Beats me," Stan said. "Soos tells me Punt hasn't set foot inside the Shack, and he didn't notice anybody who didn't look like a tourist taking video of the Gnomes performing."

"Hey, Wendy," Mabel said, "your dad's loggers aren't really scared that Grunkle Stan would burn down the woods, are they?"

"I don't know," Wendy said. "You saw his ad, though? The one where he calls Stan a firebug?"

"No!" Mabel said, sounding shocked. "That's crazy!"

"Somehow," Dipper said, "he found out about how Stan toured all around the country when he was a traveling salesman. Punt has this map with a trail winding through the states and symbols of fire in every place that Stan visited."

"Yeah, it's dumb," Stan growled. "I mean, the trail crooks into California, and there's this like slide that says 'Stanley Pines visited California, and that state has suffered from devastating forest fires. Coincidence?'"

"That's not an accusation, though," Mabel pointed out.

Stan shrugged. "Nah, it's worse. It lets people guess what it means. Like they put two and two together and get nineteen."

"He has to be getting this information from somewhere," Dipper said. "Maybe he's got private detectives on your trail."

"Yeah, like a private eye could dig up forty years of my past history," Stan said. "Don't worry, guys. Like I say, the people in town know me. Not all of 'em like me, but most of 'em are comfortable with me. I don't think we have much to worry about."

"I'm not so sure," Wendy said. "'Scuse me, I've got to take care of something."

Mabel started to ask what, but suddenly she looked like she knew. And she probably did. Over the past year at college, she and Wendy had somehow synced, and now Mabel jumped up and said, "Me, too."

"Well," Stan said, getting to his feet, "I gotta go shake babies and kiss hands. Nothing like the personal touch to make a candidate popular. I'm going downtown in an hour, but first I got to go meet the Gnomes."

"Why?" Dipper asked.

"'Cause they can vote!" Stan said.

Blinking, Dipper said, "Wait, the Gnomes have their own government, sort of. They used to be a monarchy, but now they're kind of a republic—"

"They got US citizenship too, now," Stan said. "So they got the vote. They're all registered and everything."

"When . . . did that start?" Dipper asked.

"The year they started doing their own business," Stan said. "I helped 'em with it. They earn income, they pay taxes and Social Security, same as anybody. And if they pay, they get to vote. No taxation without representation, you know. Also without aggravation, but that's the price of citizenship. I think I got their votes anyhow, but they've got a meeting in that clearing over near the cave. And I'm gonna be late unless I take off now. You go man the cash register while Wendy and Mabel are indisposed, OK?"

"OK," Dipper said. "But how did you know—"

"When you've been married as long as me, you'll understand," Stan sad, clapping his fez on his head. The Gnomes no longer had a Queen, but they appreciated a little pomp and circumstance, and you can't get much more pompous than a fez.

* * *


	8. The Disloyal Opposition

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**8-The Disloyal Opposition**

"Let me get this straight, all right?" asked Mayor (at least for the time being) Tyler Cutebiker of the bulky gentleman, and "gentle" is used loosely in this context, who stood across the desk from him. "Mr. Punt is offering me a million dollars if I name him as my Vice-Mayor and then resign, so he becomes Mayor without an election?"

"Mr. Punt feels that will avoid a lot of bother and pain," he said. "Bother for the town. Pain for you personally. Do we have a deal?" He hefted a suitcase and plopped it down on the desk. With a flip of the catches, he opened the lid to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar bills. "What do you say?"

Tyler pushed back from the desk and stood. That was an awful lot of money. More money than he'd ever seen at one time. More than he'd ever imagined. He could have a mansion. A luxury car. He could . . .

But wait a minute. Tyler _liked_ his cozy four-room bungalow. It was as neat as a captain's cabin on a British frigate back in the Napoleonic era. Everything had a place, and if he had more possessions, what would he even do with them? And who wanted a big old car? Tyler felt most alive when he was leaning over the handlebars of his small motorcycle, the wind in his hair, bugs in his teeth.

"What do you say?" the big guy asked.

Quivering, Tyler pointed toward the door as he flipped the suitcase lid shut. "I say git—git on out of here! Bribery is a crime! So git on out while you can!"

The hulk of a man snapped the catches of the suitcase and hefted it. "Word of advice," he rumbled. "Watch your scrawny back."

He stomped out. Tyler sat down and mopped his face with a handkerchief. He drew a deep, shaky breath. He felt—he felt—

_Good!_

He felt the way he had back when he'd told that awful Bill Cipher to beat it out of town. Oh, sure, he'd been turned to stone not long after that, and that was no fun at all, and then when Dipper Pines pulled him free of Cipher's Throne of Human Agony, he was scared half to death. And then it looked like the whole world was ending, and there were all those horrible nasty monstrous, um, monsters all around, and then the sky tore open and everything went back the way it was, and the next thing he knew Manly Dan Corduroy was gaping at him and asking, "What do we do, Mayor?"

Oh, man, that had felt good!

He punched a button on the intercom, and his executive assistant came in, her pad and pen at the ready for shorthand. "Yes, Tyler?"

"Take a memo, please, Myrt." He cleared his throat. "If Mayor Cutebiker is injured or killed before the election, the person responsible is Mr. Punt, who sent one of his people to try and bribe him. When the bribe was refused, Mr. Punt's employee threatened the Mayor. This is from my own knowledge. Signed, Tyler Cutebiker, Mayor of Gravity Falls. Type that up in triplicate, and I'll sign it and you witness it."

She did, a look of concern on her face. She brought in the three sheets, Tyler signed and she witnessed them, and then the mayor folded them and placed them in three envelopes, which he sealed. After a moment's thought, he wrote on each envelope, "To be opened in case of my incapacity or death. Mayor Tyler Cutebiker."

"Are you really worried?" Myrtle asked.

"Let's just say I'm being careful, Myrt. Do me a big old favor. Take one of these across to the police station and hand it to Sergeant Carlton herself, not to the Sheriff or Durland, and tell her to take real good care of it just in case. Take the second copy to the courthouse and turn it over to County Attorney Gates himself and ask him to put it in the safe in the evidence room. I'm going to lock the third envelope in the safe here. You let everybody in the building know where it's at and make sure somebody gets it and opens it before anybody else becomes Mayor."

"If you're really worried about this—"

"Just being careful, Myrt. Oh, one other thing. Just in case, if something does happen to me, please make sure Momma gets my survivor's pension."

"Oh, Tyler," Myrtle said. She bent down and, surprising both of them, kissed Tyler on the cheek. "When I come back," she said, "I'll bring my brother's handgun."

"That won't be necessary," Tyler said.

"Just being careful," she told him.

* * *

At about the same time, Stan, after laying a folded newspaper on a stump, set his briefcase on the ground, sat down on the stump and said, "Thanks for inviting me to speak to your guys and gals, Jeff."

"That's all right, Stanley," Jeff said.

"All right, I'm not gonna make a big speech," Stan said, looking over the crowd of four or five hundred Gnomes. "I'm just gonna ask you to vote for me for Mayor next week. Have you ever voted before?"

"No," Jeff said.

"Shmebulock," said Shmebulock.

"He says things have been all right up to now," Jeff explained.

"But you're all registered as voters, right?"

"Yes!" Jeff said. "We all signed or made our marks on the applications, and we all got letters saying we're voters. Well, you know that."

The Gnomes got their mail, such as it was, at the Mystery Shack.

"Right," Stan said, opening the briefcase. "Now, these envelopes hold your ballots. That's the paper you mark to vote. There's one for each of you. Where's Winzinger?"

"Here," the studious Gnome—the one and only Gnome accountant, so good that he did Stan's and the Shack's taxes—stepped through the crowd.

"Mr. Winzinger," Stan said, "Would you please distribute the ballots? You don't have to do that right this minute, just make sure that everyone gets one. Now, this here is a sample ballot, see?"

Winzinger stood beside him as Stan unfolded the sheet. "Mayor is a nonpartisan office in the Falls. Technically, it's a city office, but since we got such a small county, it doubles as the county manager, and everybody in the Valley can vote for Mayoral candidates. Now these are the candidates: Stanley Pines and Burnwald J. Punt. Every voter picks just one of these—you can't pick more than one—and marks his or her choice by filling in the box next to the name. Explain this to every Gnome, OK? And nobody has to vote, but voting gives you a say in how fair you get treated. Once you vote, put your marked ballot in the secrecy envelope—nobody has the right to look at your ballot except the election officials—and sign the oath and put those in the return envelope, this one, see?"

"Most of us can write," Jeff said. "But some can't, except for runes."

"Let them sign in runes," Stan said. "Winzinger, could you print each name of those who can't write English, please, and then witness their signatures? Do it as a Notary Public."

The assembled Gnomes murmured with pleasure. It was a point of great pride with them that one of their own held a Human office.

Winzinger said, "This is very solemn, isn't it?"

"It sure is," Stan said. "Some humans don't even realize that. OK, once all the ballots are in the envelopes, they have to be taken downtown to the police station, the city hall, or the post office. There's a metal box at each of those places marked Official Ballot Drop Box. You just drop your ballot inside—you guys will probably have to stand on somebody's shoulders to reach—and you've voted."

"The Post Office is best," Jeff said. "We have a tunnel that reaches the storm drain next to the parking lot." The Gnomes, now tree-dwellers except in very cold winters, had once been a subterranean race, and they still maintained a network of tunnels beneath the town and much of the county. That was how they were able to do their jobs as exterminators, removing rats and mice from basements.

"Well," Stan said, "that's all I have to say. You guys know me. I'd appreciate your vote, but vote for who you think deserves to be Mayor. I'll take my leave now."

He walked down the hill to the place where he'd parked. Jeff said, "We don't know anything about this Mr. Punt. And Mr. Pines has helped us to make a living. He's showed us how to be businessGnomes, not just scavengers. Back when so many of us froze or starved in the worst winters, Stanley helped us more than anybody else."

"I know who I'm voting for," Butterbur said. She was barely old enough to be a legal voter. "I'm not voting for anybody who never even lived in the Valley."

"Shmebulock," said Shmebulock, sounding unhappy.

Jeff gave him a sharp look. "What do you mean, you know something?"

"Shmebulock," he said.

Winzinger and Jeff stared at each other. "Mr. Pines ought to know that!" Winzinger said.

"Let me think about it," Jeff said, a worried expression on his face. "We'll have to hold a council about this."

Winzinger nodded. "Meanwhile, we can vote."

From three separate points, shotguns fired, sending buckshot into the crowd of Gnomes.

Who suddenly weren't there any longer.

Three guys from outside the Valley, still gripping their weapons, came forward into the clearing. "Where in the hell did they go?" one asked.

"I don't like this," the second one said.

"Well—we did our job," the third added. "Let's go see Mr. Punt and get our money. I want to get out of this place. The Valley's always been weird."

"They say they got wolves up in the hills," the first gunman said.

"Werewolves, I heard," the second one said.

"There's no such thing," the third man snapped.

"Yeah," the first one told him, "you said there wasn't any such thing as little bearded guys, neither."

"Might have been a hallucination," the second guy said, almost hopefully.

"Hell with it. Let's go see Punt and get our money. He didn't say we had to kill 'em all. Just throw a scare into 'em. We did that. They must've run like rabbits."

"Let's go," the first man said. "I don't like these woods. They got so quiet."

The three clustered for a moment.

For a little too long.

About a thousand eyes were staring at them from the underbrush. A thousand ears had heard what they had said.

So Mr. Punt wanted to scare them away, did he?

Jeff, his hands clenched in hard little fists of anger, gave the call:

"Gnomes of the forest, assemble!"

* * *


	9. Collateral Damage

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**9-Collateral Damage**

Dr. la Fievre was just finishing up his consultation with Mrs. Whatling—"You're doing very well for seven months along, Moira. Continue the vitamins, don't over-exert yourself, and if you have any problem at all, call the twenty-four-hour line right away. How's Eugene?"

"He's fine," the young woman said with a smile. "I think he's more nervous about this baby than I am!"

"He'll be so casual about the next one that you—what in the world?"

The door crashed open, though the receptionist was yelling, "You can't barge in there—!"

"My heavens! They're hurt! Thank you, Doctor, I'll get out of the way." Moira Whatling squeezed out past the incoming tide of Gnomes. One of them—Steve, the doctor thought, though it was hard to tell with Gnomes—said, "You have to help us! We have wounded Gnomes here!"

"Bring them in," la Fievre said. He called to his receptionist, "Have Judy handle anything routine. This is an emergency."

It is a mark of how the years had changed attitudes in Gravity Falls that a crowd of Gnomes, some bleeding as they all burst into the clinic didn't cause panic. "How many hurt?" the young doctor asked.

"Five!" the spokesGnome said.

La Fievre spread a blanket on the floor. "Have them lie down here. Which one is the worst?"

"Springlily can't talk or see or move!"

The doctor picked up the indicated Gnome—a female, though dressed in the traditional Gnome costume of tiny overalls, shirt, heavy boots, and—no, she must have lost her red cap. _She can't weigh more than twenty pounds!_ He lay her on the paper-covered examination table and said, "I'll have to strip her. What happened?"

"Somebody shot her with a human boom-gun!"

"You're Steve, right?"

"Yes, Jeff sent us—"

"Steve, you and your friends get the clothes off the others. Leave their underwear on if you're modest—"

"You heard him, guys—strip them down!"

The female Gnome was humanoid. And adult—she had well-developed breasts and hair where a human woman of twenty-five would have it. One wound in her arm was through-and-through and oozed the pumpkin-colored blood typical of a Gnome. Much more worrying was the wound in the back of her head.

On the other hand, her pulse was thin but steady—about 100 bpm, but who knew what was normal for a Gnome? The doctor wrapped her in a towel and said, "I'm going into the next room to x-ray this head wound. Steve, there are gauze pads on the counter there—you see the white squares in the round glass jar? Yes, those. Have the unhurt Gnomes put these over the wounds and apply pressure to them. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Is Springlily dying?"

"No, but I have to look inside her body to see how bad it is."

"Shmebulock!"

"He means," said Steve, "we trust you!"

Five minutes later, the doctor brought Springlily back. "She's lucky," he said. "It was a glancing blow, a half-inch rip in her scalp, no bone splinters, no pellet inside her skull. I think it's a concussion. Let me tend to the wounds and I'll get to the next one."

Steve climbed onto a stool and watched anxiously as the doctor shaved a little patch of hair on the back of the unconscious Gnome girl's head. He cleaned the ugly gash in her scalp, then sewed it closed with eight neat stitches. Then he probed her arm wound, cleaned it, and bandaged it.

His nurse, Judith Clomart, came in silently. "What can I do?"

"The four on the blanket are wounded. Triage them and give me an order of examination. Then take Springlily here into the trauma room and put her to bed there. Is there another female Gnome here?"

"Here," said an older voice. "Daylily. I'm her mother."

"I think she's going to be all right," la Fievre told her. "Please go with the nurse and stay with your daughter. Hop up on the bed with her. When she regains consciousness, try to keep her from becoming agitated, and if she needs help, come and get me."

She bobbed her red cap and—curtsied. And then hurried out.

"Feldspar is hurt the worst of the rest," Steve said.

Indeed he was. He was conscious, glassy-eyed, teeth clenched on a hard pain. "Boom-gun," the doctor said. "Shotgun. Feldspar, do you understand me?"

The Gnome grunted and nodded.

"Is the pain bad?"

"Yah."

La Fievre chose and loaded a syringe. "I'm going to give you a shot. It'll feel like a pinch, but I'm putting a . . . call it a sleeping potion in your blood. It'll make you go to sleep for a little while, and while you're sleeping, I can treat your wounds without your feeling it. Is that all right?"

"Yah."

_Lord, I hope their metabolism is close enough to human._

He found a vein and injected Feldspar with a sedative that would have been appropriate for a human toddler. It was fast-acting; Feldspar's eyelids fluttered and closed. To Judy, la Fievre said, "Intubate him. I'm going to have to probe for pellets."

The third Gnome, Gnewman, had two pellets in his left leg, plus a through-and-through wound in his left butt cheek. X-rays showed a pellet in his thigh bone. He got sedation, too.

Luckily, the fourth and fifth Gnomes—both males, too—had less serious injuries. When he had probed one of Feldspar's wounds and had with difficulty retrieved a shotgun pellet, la Fievre said, "I wonder."

He broke out the set of rare-earth magnetic probes and tested. The small sphere of metal leaped to the magnet with a sudden _click!_ Yes, the pellet was steel.

That made removing the other pellets much easier—no trying to ease tiny, long-jawed forceps in without damaging tissue, no fumbling attempts, just let the magnet grab the intruding pellet, out with a smooth quick pull, then disinfect and bandage the wounds.

Unfortunately, he had to operate on Gnewman's thigh. The doctor extracted a few small bone fragments and then did some internal repair of muscles and blood vessels, finally stitching the incision.

Just as he finished, the receptionist opened the door and Daylily and her daughter Springlily came in under their own power, though the daughter leaned on her mother. Someone, or someGnome, had taken Springlily's clothes to her.

"I think you'll all do well," la Fievre said. "I'm going to give Gnewman and Feldspar something for pain. They'll need to rest, and you'll need to change their bandages. Which of you can read?"

"Human? Uh—about half of us," Steve said. "I can."

"I'll give you some information on wound care. Plus some antibiotic ointments. The notes will tell you what to look out for—signs that the patients might be suffering from an infection or complication. Get them back here quick if you think anything's wrong. I'll want to check on Springlily, Feldspar, and Gnewman on Friday, anyway."

"Doctor?" It was a small voice, a hesitant one.

He smiled. "Yes, Miss Springlily?"

"Thank you."

"The Gnomes will not forget this," Steve said. "How much Human money should we pay you?"

"This is a free clinic," la Fievre told him with a smile. "Any citizen of Gravity Falls Valley is entitled to free treatment. No charge."

"Even Gnomes?" Steve asked, returning the smile.

"Of course. As far as this clinic is returned, a Gnome is just the same as a human."

Steve bowed.

"One thing, though," Dr. la Fievre said. "How did these Gnomes come to be shot with a boom-gun?"

A harsh voice said, "I can answer that."

Everyone glanced around startled.

Stanley Pines stood in the open doorway.

And he did not look happy.

* * *

At about the same time, but some miles away, in the bright light of a hot July day Blubs and Durland tilted back their Mountie hats. They stood about a hundred yards off one of the narrow, winding country roads. All around them a mixed forest of hardwoods and evergreens stood.

Except for a swath of shattered trunks and boughs. A twenty-yard gap in the trees might smashed like a divot from a hundred-foot-tall golfer's faulty drive. It all smelled of pine sap and fresh-broken wood—except for the undertones of gasoline and engine oil.

The wad of compacted, battered, twisted metal had once been a four-door Jeep Wrangler. Now it was a wad, so crushed that the passenger-side front wheel touched the driver's said rear wheel. None of the windows retained any glass at all. Near as the two policemen could tell, though, nobody had died in the crash—no bodies, no blood.

"Well," Blubs said, "one thing's sure. We ain't got no bodies."

"Yeah," agreed Durland. "And nobody cares for me."

Blubs put his hand on the deputy's shoulder. "I always care, my friend."

"Thanks," Durland said. "Reckon I should write down the license number?"

"That is an excellent idea," the sheriff told him. "We can run the plates and find out whose Jeep this tag belongs to."

Durland copied the number down, pausing once to ask, "Sheriff, does a 9 face thisaway or thataway?"

"Second one."

With his tongue sticking out, Durland finished the number with 991. "You know something? I think this was one of Mr. Gleeful's rental cars."

"Really?" Blubs gave the wreck a doubtful look. "Yeah, he did have a couple yellow-painted Wranglers for rent, didn't he? I got no bars right now, so get on the radio and tell Jack to phone this in to Mr. Gleeful from a land line and give us a holler on the horn if he can I.D. the vehicle."

"Roger that," Durland said. They had to walk through the woods to return to the patrol car. Durland slid into the seat and made the call. After a minute, he came out again, to a place where Blubs stood, a cup of coffee in his hand—he was one of those guys who would nurse a grande cup from too hot to sip to below tepid—and studied the curve in the road. "Sheriff, Bud says that was one of his, all right. Three fellas rented it early this morning to go sightseeing."

"You tell him to save their registration information?"

"Yeah, said he'd copy it for us."

"Good work, Deputy."

Durland fairly glowed in the light of the praise. "What are we a-looking for here?"

"Well Deputy, I can't help but notice something suspicious. The mud on the shoulder has tire marks in it, like the Jeep parked right here. But how could that be? From the way the woods was all tore up, it had to've left the road about here at a high rate of speed. But if it was parked, how could it have been moving?"

"It's a puzzle," Durland agreed. "Maybe it got picked up by a great big giant that crumpled it all up and throwed it like a baseball off into the woods."

Blubs chuckled. "Durland, you have the imagination of a bright five-year-old!"

"Why, thank you!"

The sheriff shrugged and finished off his cold coffee. "Let's drive back to town. I don't know how we're gonna get that wreck out of back in there. Might have to bulldoze a trail. I wonder where those three guys are. Bud's gonna want 'em to pay for his Jeep."

"Well, they sure weren't in the car."

"Nope. Another mystery. And we have no clues."

"Hey," Durland said. "Hey, you, Mr. Gnome!"

"Yes?" asked the small humanoid figure.

"You been there long?"

"No. Some squirrels saw you and told me your car was here. I just came to warn you."

"Warn us?" asked Blubs. "Warn us about what?"

"Lots of spiders around here."

The sheriff chuckled. "We're too big to worry about some little old spiders. Listen, Mr, uh—"

"Bruce. Bruce Digger."

"Mr. Bruce. Have you seen any other human men around here? Any other cars?"

"No. Not many people come this way. Not even hunters. Not much game here, except spiders."

"Didn't hear any crash or anything like that? No sound of a car running fast and flying off the road?"

"No, sorry."

Durland asked, "Did you hear a great big old giant grabbing ahold of a car and throwing it way off the road like it was a ball?"

"Not lately," Bruce said.

Frowning, Blubs asked, "What's that mean, not lately?"

Shrugging, Bruce said, "Well, Gorath used to do that sometimes, about forty of your human years ago, maybe more. But he's up in the mountains, sleeping. He sleeps for two hundred years at a time, now that he's old."

"Who's Gorath?" Blubs asked.

"He's a rock giant. Not evil, but real grouchy. But like I say, he's been asleep for years now. Won't wake up again for more than a century."

Blubs chuckled. "Oh, you little guys and your superstitions. So it definitely wasn't the work of a giant, then. Sure you didn't see or hear anything suspicious?"

"No. Just wondered what the squirrels were chattering about, came to see."

"Well, thank you anyway. Let's go, Durland. Like I said, no clues here." The two lawmen got into their prowl car and drove away.

They hadn't even glanced up in the trees and had missed a few clues.

Although, since Oregon monkey spiders completely wrapped their prey in tough layers of sticky, mummifying greenish silk cocoon that blended in with the forest canopy, they might not even have noticed the three still sluggishly-struggling bags of mook hanging fifty feet up.

* * *


	10. Digging into Dirt

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**10-Digging into Dirt**

That Wednesday evening, Stan came home looking angry and tired. Sheila met him at the front door hugged him. "I heard what happened at the clinic. That's horrible, that somebody tried to kill the Gnomes." She led Stan inside, closed the door, and switched on a table lamp.

It wasn't yet dark outside, but the blinds were closed and the light-blocking curtains drawn, Stan saw. He growled, "Somebody told you to be careful, huh? Yeah, somebody attacked the Gnomes—Punt. He learned somehow that Gnomes can vote and that they're probably all gonna vote for me. He also had some New York lawyer come to the courthouse and file an objection to accepting Gnome votes, but, hell, what can he do? They're citizens. They pay taxes. Tyler says the case won't even come to a judge before next week, probably after the election. Punt's hoping to disqualify the Gnomes. The election will be over, but if I win and the margin's thin, that might be enough to disqualify me and then he'd be the Mayor. Jeff was burnin' up about his Gnomes getting shot."

"Did any of them—"

Stan sat on the sofa, slumping. "Nah, Doc la Fievre patched 'em up. Five of Jeff's people were shot, though." Sheila sat beside him, and he put an arm around her. "Punt's gone too far, honey. He's messed with our people." He pounded his fist on his thigh.

"Did they catch the—"

"The shooters? Sort of. The Gnomes kinda dealt out their brand of justice, but I talked Jeff into turning the three goons over to the people police. We're keeping it quiet, though—they're not in the local jail, but over in Hirschville as John Does. Hospital wing. They're being treated for, uh, mild poisoning. Jeff thinks they won't be conscious for three, four days."

"Poisoning?" Sheila asked.

"Yeah. Well, venom. They got bit a little." Stan sighed. "If we can keep their whereabouts quiet, when they come to, I'm pretty sure they'll talk about who hired them to try to kill the Gnomes. Gotta be Punt, but I'd bet money he used a go-between. Ah, Jeeze, this is such a mess. I'm almost starting to think that guy Punt ain't very nice."

Sheila leaned against him. "At least nobody died."

"Lucky for those three guys," Stan said. "'Cause if one of the Gnomes hadn't made it—well, Jeff wouldn't have told me where to find those three guys, and by the time anyone might discover them, there wouldn't be anything left but dried-up husks. Hell, I almost wish—nah, forget it. I mighta been a pickpocket and a con artist in my time, but I never was violent. Let's go up to the Shack. We have to talk to everybody about this."

"Don't you want to have dinner first?"

"No appetite," Stan said. "Wait a minute. I'm gonna get my baseball bat."

* * *

Dusk was falling. Honestly, even though Stan wielded the baseball bat expertly when he had to—he wasn't _spontaneously_ violent, but when he or his family were under attack, Stan could fight back in self-defense—the Louisville Slugger wouldn't be much of a deterrent from mooks bearing shotguns.

However, though neither Stan nor Sheila knew it, they had a guardian angel. They didn't see a sign of anything out of the ordinary, though, as they walked up the hill to the Shack.

But a figure watched over them, in Ninja gear, but armed with one of Fiddleford McGucket's offbeat devices. It did not look like an ordinary pistol, more like a foot-long rectangular black box with a pistol grip. Instead of a barrel, it had two quarter-inch parts.

And instead of bullets, it fired two intense beams, one green, one red. The weapon would not destroy a tree, a car, or anything inanimate. It wouldn't plink empty beer cans off a fence posts, the way even a BB gun would.

On the other hand, if it hit living flesh—even if the flesh were covered in thick fur, the way a grizzly bear's skin was, or even if clothing covered it, the kind that humans and Gnomes wore—then the red beam and the green beam would complete a circuit. Like magic, the target would disintegrate!

Uh, no. Remember the flashy things from that movie? The one that removed memories of alien creatures from human minds?

Sort of like that. The human target would experience an extremely hot flash, and when that faded, so would his or her memory of everything for about ten years back, maybe twelve.

The amnesia beams would work through glass windows. They would work at any line-of-sight distance. They were completely silent. Not even a _zzzap!_ or a _thwip!_

The figure tailed Stanley and Sheila to the Shack. Then climbed a tree beside the Shack and from there leaped lightly to the roof, landing nearly without sound. Even Wendy would have been impressed by that display of ability. And then the guardian remained vigilant, not remaining still, but sweeping the area 360 degrees, the earpiece connected to a signal from Stanford Pines's detection apparatus.

All clear. Agent Hazard was on the job.

Nobody had ever got past her.

And she was determined that nobody would.

* * *

Ford wouldn't let anyone speak until he had scanned the entire Shack, and all of the surrounding grounds, for bugs.

"Were clear," he said at last. "I apologize for insisting that everyone come down to the lab for this, but if we were upstairs, there's a bare chance that someone off-property with a parabolic microphone aimed at a window could eavesdrop on us." He looked around the table. "Well, here we are—Wendy? Mabel? Are you all right? You both look a little pale."

Wendy gave him a weak smile. "We're OK, Dr. P. It's one of those female things."

Ford blinked. "Oh," he said. Though knowledgeable in a myriad of fields, he had been surprisingly ignorant about those female things before marrying Lorena. Oh, he had learned about them while studying for his M.D, but since he'd been without feminine company while on the run across scores, if not hundreds, of alternate dimensions for much of his life, he had lacked what you might call personal experience that would have made the lessons stick.

Ford said, "All right, folks. Stanley asked me to research Punt's past and his connection with Gravity Falls. Let me show you this."

They sat around a table on which Ford had spread a flexible three-by-three-foot black pad gleaming with an intricate network of printed circuitry. The table was too small for everyone, so the chairs were spread out and scattered a bit. Ford switched on a computer, typed with four fingers, and said aloud, "Lights to ten per cent." The voice command dimmed the room.

A hologram glowed to visibility atop the pad.

"I know that place," Stan said. "It's a house over on Montrose."

"The old McEnery house," Lorena, the expert on Gravity Falls history, said. "It was built back in the 1920s. Vernon McEnery owned some mines, one in the Valley, some silver mines in Nevada. He was a widower when he retired to live here, but he died before living in the house for even one year. It's had a series of owners over the years."

"One of them was Burnwald Punt's father," Ford said. "The Punts lived there from 1939 to 1950. When the family moved away, the place stood empty for five years. The Punts still owned it, and they had maintenance done on the lawn and house, but it was essentially abandoned. Finally in 1955 they sold it to the Northwest Realty Company. They rented it for a few years, then sold it in 1961 to Seth Clawkins, the owner of a cruise line. The Clawkins family occupied it until 2002, then closed the house. It was empty for three years before being resold to Northwest Realty again. They resold it at a profit in 2008 to the Musel family. They use it only in the winters, when they stay here to enjoy skiing and such."

"Oh, yeah, the rich snobs," Stan said. "I don't think I ever met them, though. They keep to themselves."

"Normally they don't rent the place out," Ford said. "However, my agents learned that the current owner, Fielding Musel, has just signed a lease for a two-month rental that will begin on Friday night—midnight. The entity that is renting the house is Transnational Fiduciary Exchange, Inc. That company exists only to receive and hide funds. And it's owned by—"

"Burnwald Punt, am I right?" Dipper asked.

"You are indeed."

"He's planning to live here?" Mabel asked. "Yuck. We'll never get that funky Punt stench out of the town!"

Tripper, too low to see the hologram, yipped.

"I don't think he's gonna live here," Stan said with a frown. I wonder…there might be some reason he wants to get into that place legal-like."

"Wanna beat him to the punch? We could bust in and search the joint," Wendy said.

Ford grimaced. "That would be extraordinarily unwise. Either Mr. Punt or the legal owners could bring a trespassing charge against us."

"Yeah," Stan agreed. "If they caught us. But I like the way you're thinking, Wendy."

"Let me show you something else," Ford said. He clicked away on the keyboard again.

An image came to life, a somewhat faded color photograph—not three-dimensional, but flat, and it slowly revolved so everyone could see it.

It was a family portrait. A lean, dark-haired man and a thin, haughty-looking woman sat smiling at the camera. Between them a black-haired toddler sat looking bored.

Ford said, "Mr. and Mrs. Punt and little Burnwald. The photograph was taken in December 1949. Burnwald was born on January 4, 1947, so he would have been close to two years old."

Wendy said, "I wouldn't have guessed that kid would grow up to be so dumpy and ugly."

"His hair's the wrong color," Mabel added.

"This is the last photograph we were able to find of the youthful Burnwald. His family left Gravity Falls for New York in November of 1950, but here's the next picture of him, in 1957, his student ID for his military school."

The image of the eleven-year-old replaced the one of the family.

"Something definitely stinks," Mabel said.

The boy in the new photo had sandy-blond hair, a pouty expression and close-set eyes.

The toddler had black hair, a vacant expression, and wide-set eyes.

"They could be two different people," Lorena said.

"If only we had more time," Ford said. "This is definitely a circumstance we need to explore."

"Twins!" Mabel exclaimed. "I'll bet they're twins, and one of them's an idiot the family's ashamed of! Maybe the normal one's still hidden away in the Punt house in New York!"

"The birth records show that it was a single birth," Ford said.

"A changeling!" Dipper exclaimed. "Maybe the fairies of Gravity Falls did a swap!"

"There are wee folk in the Valley," Ford acknowledged, "but there's no evidence they ever indulged in, ah, the changeling trade. And I'm certain that Burnwald Punt is fully human. But just to check something, I had the Agency experts do an age adjustment on both children. This is computer generated, so it's no more accurate than a detailed police sketch, but look at this."

He changed the image again. "This is the toddler aged up to eleven." More keyboard tapping. "And this is the eleven-year-old aged down to two."

The faces floated side by side in the display.

The original toddler looked thin-faced and slack of expression.

The de-aged eleven-year-old looked chubby-faced and scowling.

"Completely different hair colors. And their faces are nothing alike," Sheila said.

"Yeah," Stan agreed. "Now, that's a real suspicious discovery. I'd say it's worthy of police investigation."

"It's only a sketch. If we could just base it on something more solid," Ford said. "All right, that was the show-and-tell presentation. Lights up, please." When the system turned the lights fully on again, he said, "More troubling findings. Though he's never been indicted or even suspected of any specific violation of criminal law, he has definitely dealt with organized crime. His New York businesses have Mob connections, and his building projects have laundered money from Russian gangsters. There's no doubt of that—but no unassailable proof."

For a few minutes they all sat in silence.

Then Wendy spoke up: "Dr. P, I have a question."

"Yes?"

"About a minute after Stan and Sheila got here, who walked around up on the Shack roof?"

Ford stared at her in evident surprise. "Wendy," he said in a respectful, even awed tone, "what an agent you could be!"

* * *


	11. Night and Anticipation

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**11-Night and Anticipation**

Friday was set aside for the great debate. Tyler decreed a legal holiday, Stan offered the Woodstick arena as the site, and the town council set the time as ten A.M. through noon, and then free beer. The Shack closed for the day, and—using a concession hut equipped with kitchen equipment—Teek and Abuelita would cook burgers, hotdogs, and fries which Mabel, Dipper, and Sheila would serve, while Lorena worked the cash register.

Ideally, everyone would have had a good, sound, night's sleep before the big event. Alas for the residents of the Shack, they did not have that opportunity. They stayed up past midnight researching, getting reports, trying to find the key that would unlock the mystery of Mr. Punt.

At Dipper's recommendation, they called up satellite images of the old Punt mansion. They found half a dozen good ones, the oldest dating back nearly ten years, the most recent having been taken in December of 2016. That one—Ford had to call it up from a classified web site—was exceptionally sharp and high-rez.

"All I can tell about it," complained Mabel, "is that it's big!"

It occupied a one-acre lot, with a reasonable front yard and a half-acre or more back yard. The photo had been taken about noon on a mid-December day, with minimal shadows. An overlay of dotted white lines showed the boundaries of the lot. Dipper agreed with Mabel, to an extent: "I guess what we really need is to reconnoiter the place if we can slip onto the property without being noticed. We'll need to see if we can locate a door or maybe a window where we can get inside without causing damage."

Wendy, leaning close to the screen, asked, "What's this in the back yard?"'

Ford said, "It's hard to make out. Dipper, can you boost the contrast?"

Dipper saved the file, a big one, and then loaded it in his Pictoshop app. "OK, let me fool around for a minute . . . you guys look one and tell me if I'm getting close to what you want. . .."

"There, stop there," Wendy said. She pointed a finger. "I thought this was some kind of weird-shaped building behind the house, but it's probably just a flowerbed or some biz."

"Odd shape, though," Dipper said.

The back yard looked groomed—mowed, at least—though the grass was yellow with winter. However, in one spot, not all that large, a roundish patch of still-green vegetation showed up. It was roughly in the shape of an artist's palette, an irregular, deformed oval.

Mabel stared at it. "How big is it?"

"Dunno how big the house is," Wendy said. "But it looks sizeable. 'Bout—what would you say, Dr. P?"

"I'd hesitate to claim accuracy, but given the scale, I would judge it to be perhaps five meters on the longer diameter, perhaps four on the shorter one."

"That's probably holly or something growing in it," Mabel said. "Or something that stays green in the wintertime."

"Don't think it's holly," Wendy said. "It's not that dark a green. Maybe _Osmanthus heterophyllus_ , but when that's mature, it's three feet tall, and this stuff is short for that."

Ford said, "You never fail to amaze me, Wendy! How did you know—"

"I've had botany," Wendy said, smiling.

"She aced it!" Dipper added, beaming with pride.

"Well, wonderful. I'm not sure it's a garden, though. Perhaps the overgrown, spreading remnant of a flowerbed. If we have time, we'll try to examine it during our reconnaissance."

"Where'd Grunkle Stan go?" Mabel asked.

"Back home and to bed," Ford told her. "He has the debate coming up tomorrow."

"Yeah," Dipper said, "I'm kinda worried about him getting off the track and—what's that?"

"That" was the sound of the secret door opening and someone coming down the steps. "Anybody here?" asked a woman's voice.

"Through the lab, into the back conference room," Ford called.

Agent Hazard came in. "Mr. Pines is back home, and the alarms and cameras are online and active," she said. "Hi, Wendy. Dipper, chased any ghosts lately? How's the theater career going, Mabel?"

"Amy!" Mabel said. "It's good to see you! Man, in that skin-tight black suit, you look _hot_! Doesn't she, Dip?"

With a quick glance at Wendy, whose smile was enigmatic, Dipper said, "Um, I think it's more practical than dressy. For sentinel duty."

"Does show you off, though," Wendy said.

For a second the two ladies held each other's gaze, both smiling. And then Ford interrupted: "Agent Hazard, we've been discussing this local house that the subject has rented for short-term occupancy. I'll give you the address. We need to do a surreptitious examination of it, with a special eye to the possibility of obtaining clandestine access if that becomes necessary. I'd like you to undertake that, preferably just at first light tomorrow morning."

"Understood, Director. Give me the info, and if we're clear here, then I'll get some rest. I'll report to you tomorrow. Photographs?"

"Yes. You know what to look for, and I'll trust your discretion." Ford scribbled something on a blank notecard and passed it over. "Unless something unexpected happens, you can find me at the arena office at 1200 hours or later. In case of emergency, phone the backup line at once. Otherwise, call on the discreet line before you rendezvous. And in your recon, be very careful not to be spotted," he warned Hazard.

"Always am," she said. "Goodnight. I'll go now—or do you want me to accompany you to your place?" she asked Ford.

Ford looked at his watch. "Good heavens, fifteen past midnight. Yes, that will be as well. The Shack is protected." He stood and stretched. "Agent Hazard is staying in our guest room. We'll take our leave, and I'd suggest you three turn in as well. Tomorrow will be a busy day."

"Hey, Amy," Wendy said, turning the laptop. "Look at this in the back yard of the place. We're wondering what this green patch is, so when you do your recon, if you get a chance—"

"Sure, I'll take a look." Ford was shrugging into his coat—he still habitually wore his long coat when he was involved in an investigation. Agent Hazard asked Dipper, "How are you liking married life?"

"Loving every minute of it," Wendy said, and Dipper, grinning and feeling twelve years old, nodded.

"Great. Ready, Director?"

"Ready," Ford said. "Dipper, please see to locking up the lab."

"Got it," Dipper said.

They closed down everything and went back upstairs. Mabel let Tripper out for a last potty break, and Dipper and Wendy waited until he came back and made sure the door was locked.

Up in the attic, in bed, Dipper silently asked Wendy, _Am I imagining things, or is Amy Hazard still kind of interested in you?_

— _Maybe a little bit. Don't let it but you, 'cause I'm happy with what I got, Dip. Show you maybe on Monday, after I'm back to normal._

 _Assuming Grunkle Stan doesn't screw up tomorrow,_ Dipper thought to her. _You know, I can't blame Amy for being flirty. You're both beautiful. And like Grunkle Ford says, you'd be a heck of a great Agent._

— _Yeah, thanks, Dip. But like I told you, I'm happy with what I got. And I got you, man._

They kissed—chastely, Wendy was just getting over cramps—and fell asleep in each other's arms.

Nothing disturbed the Shack or them.

That night, anyway.

* * *

Technically, Punt's rental of the old mansion began at one minute past midnight, but he certainly did not intend take possession of the house at such ungodly hour. As a hard-driving businessman, he had become accustomed to rising only around ten in the morning, and he had already scheduled his official move into the house for the next Wednesday—just after winning the Mayoral election.

He would need the power of the Mayor's office to find what he needed to find and deal with that. And to set his master plan for the Valley in motion.

Rarely did he ever go to sleep before one or two in the morning at the earliest. The evenings weren't so hot for doing business in the ordinary sense, but those hours were great for schmoozing, for doing the down-low kind of business—an under the table payment here, a threat of blackmail there, bribes to grease the skids, payoffs and collections, that kind of business.

On the Thursday night before the debate, he turned in at eleven and then lay there channel-surfing. Local news, who needed it, stupid concerns for stupid people in this stupid hick place. National news, terrorists blamed for a shooting in Canada, who worries about anything in Canada, the Administration in Washington dealing with detaining illegals on the border, boring, boring, no big financial possibilities in any of that, and then into the business report, worries about a trade war balancing strong earnings on stocks, blah, blay, blah, his own holdings had not grown or shrunk to any significant degree, so as far as he was concerned, there was no big business news.

No stock windfall, damn it. He could use one. Money was a problem right at that point in his life. Though he put up a good front, he had actually run through his multimillion-dollar payday from the reality show.

In fact, Punt was living on loans obtained from frankly dodgy sources. Which had led to his deciding to come back to dear old Gravity Falls. In the first place, he had a scheme to make a lot of money quickly. In the second place, he had unfinished business here.

He watched the news until the weather came on. Tomorrow was going to be hot but fine, no rain, few clouds, a high of 88, low of 47. He fell asleep before the weather girl wound up with, "It looks like a typical nice summer day, so get out and enjoy it!"

By then the time was about 1:20 A.M, and he was snoring.

And so on that Friday morning, in his hotel outside the Valley, Punt lay in bed, asleep, with a call for nine A.M. That would give him time to get up, dress, grab coffee and a breakfast burrito or sandwich, and be driven to the debate site, arriving perhaps one minute late. It's always good to make a big entrance….

Keeps the rubes on their toes, you might say.

He dreamed inchoate scenes of triumph and revenge.

* * *


	12. The Great Debate

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**12-The Great Debate**

Two hours before the scheduled start time, a huge crowd—well, huge for Gravity Falls, anyway—filled the seats in the Woodstick arena. Gabbling to each other, laughing at well-worn jokes, visiting and gossiping, they craned to stare at what was going on up on the stage.

Nothing, really. Mayor Cutebiker had ordered the set-up: three lecterns, three microphones. Stan would take the stage right lectern, Tyler as moderator would have the middle one, and the challenger would take the stage left position. Tyler and Stan had been sitting on two of the three folding chairs upstage from the speakers' positions for half an hour. The debate would begin in about three minutes, but so far Punt was a no-show.

The crowd already seemed restless. The early arrivals had taken up the VIP stands by 8:45, and now, over an hour later, every row of the bleachers had been filled, and some were sitting on beach towels up on the grass. Tyler looked around and said to Stan, "We better do a sound check. If Punt doesn't show up, then you can make your speech and take questions."

"Fine with me," Stan said.

"Take your mike, and I'll try the others."

The two men got up, approached the stands, and the crowd noise fell in volume. Somebody yelled, "Where's the TV star?"

Tyler waved and looked over to the control booth.

"It's show time!" Mabel announced. She and Dipper were running the sound board, while Teek and Wendy had been ushering citizens in and helping them find seats. Dipper activated the center microphone but kept it at a low gain. The board was a little temperamental and if not set precisely, it would respond with a screeching objection of feedback.

"Testing, onesie, twosie," Tyler said. "Little louder, please?"

Clenching his teeth, Dipper nudged the slider up just a bit.

Tyler said, "Hello, hello, hello. Can everybody hear me?"

The crowd gave a chorus of "Yeah!" and a few smart-asses yelled, "No!" or "What?" There are always a few.

"Oh, you!" Tyler said. He gestured to Stan and then walked toward the third mike.

Dipper kept his finger on Stan's slider because Stan tended to talk loud anyway. But wonder of wonders, Stan just said, "Hi, how ya doin'?" and the sound came clear and the speakers didn't squeal.

Tyler had them adjust the third mike levels, and then he went back to the moderator's position. "All righty, everything seems to be working. We're gonna wait just a while for the other candidate to make an appearance. Be patient, everybody."

Someone tapped on the sound-booth door, Mabel opened it, and Wendy and Teek came in. "How's things going?" Wendy asked.

"Fine, so far," Mabel said cheerfully. "Old Poop-head hasn't shown up. Hey, Dipper, if he doesn't come, is Grunkle Stan the automatic winner?"

"I think we still have to have the vote," Dipper said.

Teek stood behind Mabel and massaged her shoulders. "If Punt doesn't even bother to debate," he said, "nobody would vote for him, so—"

"Dip," Mabel said, "can Wendy take over here? Me and Teek want to go backstage and watch from there. Just in case old Pukey Punt does show up and tries any funny business."

"Sure, go ahead," Wendy said. "I'll help Dip out here."

"Thanks! Bye! Come on, Teek!" the two of them bustled out, holding hands, and Wendy slipped into the chair that Mabel had occupied.

"OK, Dip, give me a quick lesson in how to operate this thing," Wendy said, reaching for Dipper's hand.

Dipper smiled and then mentally reviewed everything he knew about how to work the mixer. — _That's about it. You get that?_

_Think so, Dipper. Back-stop me if I do something wrong._

— _Don't worry, Wen. It's not that hard. And unless one of them starts shouting, all we have to do is sit here and watch the levels. Um, Wen?_

_Yeah? Oh, you're thinking about Amy Hazard? Don't worry, Dip, even if she's really interested in me, it's not gonna matter. I'll turn her down. You're all I want or need._

— _Love you, Wen._

_Love you, too, Dip. So much. Oh, shit, he's showed up._

The crowd had started to cheer. Burnwald Punt, wearing his ridiculously long red power tie and a dark suit, his probably tinted hair coiffed, made his way down the center aisle toward the stage, waving at the crowd, pumping his fist, and calling out something they couldn't catch. Somebody showed him where the steps up to the stage were, and he climbed up, holding his arms up in a victory gesture. Then he walked to the mike and said, "How are ya?" scowling, he added, "Turn this thing up! They want to hear Punt!"

"You asked for it," Dipper said, moving the slider.

"There!" Punt yelled. A banshee scream of feedback made everybody, including him, wince. "Damn it, not that loud! Idiot!"

Dipper nudged the slider back to the exact same level where it had begun.

"OK, OK, yeah, you finally got it right. If that moron of a sound guy had been on _Clawing to the Top,_ I'd have fired him in the first round! Right, everybody?"

He got a laugh, but Wendy reached for the mixer board. "I'm gonna cut the bastard off."

"No, let him go," Dipper said. "He's the kind of guy who'll shoot himself in his own foot."

Scowling, Wendy settled back in her chair.

Onstage, the Mayor was waving for quiet. "All right, all right," Tyler called out over the crowd noise. "We're a little bitty bit late, so we're gonna get started, right? Now, the way we're gonna do this is that each candidate gets five minutes to state a position, the other one gets five minutes to rebut, and then we move on to the next question. After ninety minutes, we'll have half an hour for questions from the floor and that will wrap us up. The first one in the race is Stanley Pines, over on my right, so we'll start with him."

"That's the last time this putz will come in first, am I right?" Punt said into his mike, getting another laugh.

Wendy said, "I swear, Dip, I'm gonna cut him off!"

"No, wait, just be cool," Dipper said. "Stan wouldn't want us to do that."

"All right, all right, simmer down," Tyler said. "We'll alternate, OK? Mr. Pines, first topic: Tell us your vision for Gravity Falls if you become Mayor. Five minutes."

Dipper started the timer.

"Thanks, Mayor Cutebiker," Stan rumbled. "Hello, friends and neighbors. My vision is for a Gravity Falls that's a place where we all get along together, where everybody has what they need to be productive and—"

"He's a communist!" Punt yelled.

"—and where everyone is a valued—"

"Radical left garbage! Right out of Karl Marx! Communist propaganda!" Punt yelled.

Flustered, Tyler said, "Now, now, you'll have your turn—"

"Pines is following the socialist playbook!" Punt said, plowing ahead. "He's gonna take away your jobs and your guns!"

"Now, hold on!" Stan said, red in the face.

And . . . it got worse.

Punt's turn was taken up with generalities. "He's not saying anything really!" Wendy exclaimed.

Dipper's jaw was tight and his face was red, but he didn't reply to Wendy as down on stage, Punt rambled: "You got resources here, everybody could be a millionaire! Not if a socialist government confiscates your stuff, but if I'm Mayor! You could restart the mines, there are beautiful mines, nobody's ever seen mines like this, now they're just holes in the ground, but with me, money pours in! These woods, you know how much I could sell lumber for, I make a tremendous deal, I make the best deals, right? So everybody gets rich, right? Capitalism, it's beautiful. The American way, yeah?"

The most surprising moment came about twenty minutes in. Punt was holding forth, still speaking in half-sentences and disconnected ideas, when Jeff and five other Gnomes came in, filed right down front, and sat on the ground staring at Punt, who belatedly noticed the small figures in red caps.

"Opportunities, and I mean anybody who wants to do the work, not people who want a nanny government to take care of them like little babies, chase them out, who needs them, am I what in God's name are those?"

Even from inside the booth, Dipper and Wendy could hear Jeff's angry yell: "We're Gnomes and we're citizens! And we can vote!"

Now, once the humans of Gravity Falls would have been perturbed to run across a Gnome or two. More than one of them had been known to choose a shot from a memory eraser gun rather than acknowledge the existence of the little people.

However, since Weirdmageddon, when everyone had stood shoulder to shoulder, or in the case of Gnomes, shoulder to shin, united against Bill Cipher, the Gnomes had gradually become members of the community. They got invited to birthday parties. Heck, they quaffed beer and sat in on poker games in the back room of the Skull Fracture, and in the Falls, nobody got more accepted than that. So Punt's overreaction startled the humans in the audience.

For the first time since the debate had started, Punt stayed silent as Stan got his turn to talk. He was speaking about tourism and its economic advantage to the Falls, and despite the number of times Punt had heckled him, he stayed on topic and spoke forcefully and well—he had run the Falls' premiere tourist attraction for thirty years, and he knew what he was talking about.

His opponent's attention focused on the Gnomes sitting almost under him. Punt's rebuttal—was odd. He stood at the lectern and boomed, "These little guys, these criminals, coming in here, taking our jobs! Send 'em back! They're creepy, am I right? Dealing drugs, trying to steal our daughters! Rapists! You know what? When I'm Mayor, I'm building a wall right across the way into the Valley! Dri ve these animals out and close the wall! Keep out the riffraff, am I right? A beautiful wall, all the way to the top of the cliffs! And we'll take all the stuff they've stolen, and the Gnomes will pay for it!'

The crowd started to argue, most objecting to this notion.

But some of them seemed to be supporting Punt.

"Uh-oh," Dipper moaned.

* * *

By the Q&A session, the debate had collapsed into a shambles. Punt would not shut up. Stan grew increasingly furious and seemed to be holding himself in only with a great effort. When at last a frazzled Tyler said, "That concludes the debate, folks. Remember to fill in your ballots and return them by five o'clock Tuesday to make your voices heard. Now, git—git on home."

Dipper and Wendy closed down the sound board and then she said, "Dip, we better get down there, fast!"

"What's wrong?"

"Punt and Stan went backstage, and the Gnomes followed them!"

They ran down the slope, up onto the stage, and through the backdrop, hearing Stan yelling: "You wanna throw down, Punt? Come on, I'll take ya on!"

"Watch your mouth, Jewboy! I have ways of handling punks like you!"

The Gnomes clustered near Stan, but Jeff strode toward Punt, his small fists clenched. "Yeah," he yelled. "Where are your three tough guys, Punt? Know what happened to them? Gnomes never forget!"

"I could stomp you like a bug!" Punt screamed.

Mabel and Teek were holding Stan back. He had shed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, and even without knuckle dusters, he looked dangerous. Punt was on the other side of a backstage table, purple with anger and threatening to boot Jeff.

"Hey, stop it!" Dipper yelled.

Punt scowled at him. "Stay out of this, kid! I'll—"

_Whack!_

Punt jerked away from the table, glaring at the axe quivering there. The blade had embedded itself deep in the top.

"You won't do anything," Wendy said. She wrenched her axe free. "Mr. Punt, you got business elsewhere. Better go now."

Punt wavered, eyeing the axe. He shook his finger at Wendy. "Bitch, just wait until I'm Mayor! I'll take care of you and him and all of them! And I'll throw these little sawed-off buggers out of the Valley! I'll show you all!"

He strode off. Jeff started after him, but Wendy said, "Jeff, cool it, man. Anything we do here gets us in trouble. Just be sure your guys know to vote."

"Hey, Jeff," Stan said as he put his jacket back on, "how are the ones that got shot?"

Jeff took three long, deep breaths. "Getting better. Two are having a hard time."

"Anything I can do to help, just ask."

"This time," Jeff said, "I think it's up to us Gnomes. But thanks, Stan."

For a moment silence fell.

Then Mabel spoke up, brightly: "That went well!"

* * *


	13. Field Report

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**13-Field Report**

To Dipper's surprise, Stan had them all—he, Wendy, Teek, and Mabel—pile into the Stanleymobile, and he drove them out of the Valley. "Where are we going?" Mabel asked.

"Never mind," Stan said. "You'll know when we get there."

"Stan," Wendy said from the backseat, "watch your speed, man. You're driving angry."

"Yeah, can't help it," Stan growled, but he slowed to the speed limit and hunched forward a little. "That damn Punt gets on my last nerve! Mabel, don't tell Sheila I said 'damn' in front of you, OK?"

"Damn straight," Mabel said. "I know the rules!"

Dipper, in the backseat with Wendy, guessed their destination within minutes, but he told her silently, holding her hand. _–Stan's driving us to Ford's Institute. Must be something up._

_Yeah, I'll bet Ford's found something on Punt. Or Amy has. Why are we using telepathy, Dip?_

– _Because Ford thought Punt might have planted bugs everywhere._

_Yeah, well, if he did, he probably planted a GPS bug, too. But no sense in letting Punt know what we're saying, I guess. Nice day for a drive. Remind me to show you a spot off the road along here where the river pools up. Sweet place for a moonlight skinny dip!_

– _Oh, I'll be sure to remind you of that!_

"Now I know where we're going!" Mabel exclaimed from the front-seat shotgun position. "We're—"

"Don't say it, Sis!" Dipper said, cutting her off. "We all know, anyway."

"Why—oh. Right," Mabel said. "Got it."

The Institute for the Study of Anomalous Sciences—to give it one of its names, because it had several, including the students' informal Scare U—had once been an abandoned rural high school, but since its establishment a few years before, it had grown impressively. Now it boasted not just one classroom building, but three, connected by covered walkways, plus four complete dorms and two more under construction. There was a library, an auditorium, a gymnasium—regular college stuff, as Soos might say.

And the necessary student and faculty parking lots. Stan surprised Dipper by not parking in one of them, but driving around back of the main building, pressing a garage-door opener, and then as the door in what looked like a one-car garage swung up, down a ramp and into an underground lot where a dozen cars could park and seven already had.

Behind them the garage door closed again. Stan said, "Sit tight a minute. Poindexter's scanning us with some doojigger that McGucket built."

They sat, Mabel uneasily squirming. "I hope they can't tell I'm not wearing a bra," she murmured.

Stan shrugged. "Meh, if they don't catch that I'm goin' commando, they won't notice that."

"Oh, T.M.I, you two!" Wendy said laughing.

"It's hot in a sweater!" Mabel said. "Look, Teek's all red in the face!"

An AI voice said, "Scan complete. Vehicle clear. Passengers may exit."

"Come on," Stan said, opening the driver's door. "There's an elevator this way. Probably take us two trips, though."

The elevator car was a tight space, and Wendy, Mabel, and Teek rode up together first. When the doors opened again, Stan and Dipper got in. "I didn't know this was here," Dipper said.

"Yeah, my brainiac brother's getting paranoid in his old age," Stan said. "Wait a minute, we're the same age! In his late youth, let's say. Guess it comes with runnin' the Guys in Black outfit."

The elevator had only two buttons, DOWN and UP. The UP one took them to a windowless room furnished with a long conference table at which eighteen people could comfortably gather, though at the moment only the ladies, Teek, Fiddleford, Agent Hazard, and Ford were there. "Here we are," Ford said. "This is a secure room. I've been hearing about Punt's distressing behavior at the debate. Well, well, everyone be seated and Agent Hazard and I will bring you up to speed. Lights at level one."

The lights dimmed, and then a holographic pad that covered most of the table projected three-dimensional images—the first one of three men, all of them in their forties, all of them unpleasant-looking. The black one looked like a boxer gone slightly to seed, a little jowly but with an angry face. The bald one was muscular and white, with a squash3d nose, a squint, and a red face, reminding Dipper a little of Mr. Poolcheck. The sandy-haired one wasn't as buff, but had a suggestion of wiry, sinewy strength about him.

"These the mooks that tried to murder Jeff's people?" Stanley asked.

"Correct," Ford said. "Although because of the amount of venom they absorbed, none of them can clearly remember that. They're all from the East. Cheetham there is from the Bronx. He's an impressively powerful man, but he got that way from spending about a third of his life in prison. Burke, the bald man, is from Alabama originally and was in the fight game for ten years before he settled down to run a gymnasium in Yonkers. The last fellow is Duquesne, French-Canadian, who was Punt's personal security man when the television program was running and stuck with him as bodyguard after the series went off the air. He's the only one with a solid link to Punt."

"What's gonna happen to them?" Stan asked.

"Hard to say. They'd have to be tried in the Valley—we don't let outsiders know that the Gnomes aren't circus dwarfs, but a separate species of humanoids. At that, I'm not sure they'd get a fair trial. So far, Gnomes have kept the peace among themselves, and the police, such as they are, haven't charged any Gnome with violating a human law. By the same token, Gnomes haven't served on juries. I suppose twelve human citizens of the Falls might be counted on to consider the men's offense and bring in a just verdict, but unless the punishment is strict, the Gnomes might not be satisfied."

"We just could turn 'em over to the Gnomes again," Stan said.

"Dude, no," Wendy said. "I mean, they'd probably just give 'em back to the spiders!"

"Spiders has to eat, same as anybody," Fiddleford said mildly.

Ford sighed. "Well, for now they're hospitalized and under false names. Punt's had his people asking around town about them, but they haven't picked up the trail so far. All right, next on the agenda, Agent Hazard."

"Thanks, Director," Hazard said, standing up. She operated a tablet, and the holographic image became the Dutch Colonial mansion she had investigated. "First off, there are two alarm systems, one that monitors all the doors, all the windows. Second, there are three cameras that limit the approach to the house across the grounds. Let me flip this."

The display went vertical, like a detailed map as seen from above hanging in mid-air. "One camera covers the approach to the front, and it's here. This is the field of vision." A red dot over the front door flicked on, and a broad red pie-wedge showed what it could see.

"Back yard and entrance to the cellar and the back door is here." A green light and surveillance wedge showed that coverage area. "Finally, at the rear of the property another wide-angle surveillance camera is mounted on a pole and looks toward the house." That one showed up in purple.

"Bet I can whomp up an invisibility field generator by Sunday," Fiddleford said. "That would fox them cameras, I bet."

Hazard shook his head. "Good idea, but hear me out. Now, there are means of infiltration here and here that lie outside the coverage area," Hazard said. "This one puts us against the left side of the house, looking toward it from the street, at the corner, and the other one on the right side leads us to the chimney. That's the one I used. The chimney was a difficult climb, but I could do it. Scrambled up onto the roof—"

"Weren't you afraid that the backyard camera would pick you up?" Dipper asked.

"No," Hazard said with a smile. "I was out of its field of vision. I checked."

"How?" Mabel asked.

Hazard raised an eyebrow. "How would you do it?"

"I'd go up the pole from behind and reach around and spray black paint on the lens!" Mabel said. "Whoosh! By the way, next time you want to climb a chimney, I'd recommend a grappling hook!"

"Well, I didn't do that," Hazard told her. "Any other guesses?"

Wendy said, "I'd try to hack into the system, check the view with like my phone or a tablet."

Hazard turned toward Ford. "Hire this girl if you want a good agent," she advised. "Yes, that's what I did. The camera view cut off below the attic windows. And it couldn't see the space on my side of the chimney at all. Anyhow, I got to the roof and scouted. There was a small skylight that wasn't wired for burglar detection. It gave down onto what was probably built as a light well—there's a central stairwell open from the ground floor all the way to the roof. I unlocked it, swung inside, and looked around. No motion detectors inside. There was an attic bedroom on one end of the house, an empty room on the other side, and in the center some attic space. The quarter-round windows were wired into the alarm system, so I hacked in from there to disarm everything."

"And what did you find?" Ford asked.

"First, since I thought we might want to get in again, I found a spot behind a radiator where I could plant an RC-2202 unit."

Fiddleford beamed. "One o' mine. It's an override you can access by radio signal from a half-mile away. Jest turn it on and then you can disarm the burglar alarms an' even switch off the cameras. And turn 'em back on after you make your getaway, by crackity!"

"I tested it out, and it worked. I switched everything off and then went through the place. It's furnished already. The master bedroom's down on the second floor, takes up three-eighths of the space. Smaller bedroom and playroom on the other side of the house. I'd guess that would be the nursery and later the bedroom for the boy. Few antiques in those and other rooms, but mostly good-quality stuff from the 2000s."

She verbally sketched out the ground floor—entryway, stairs winding up, living room, den, big dining room, kitchen, an office or study. The cellar stairs were in the kitchen. "Cellar's damn dusty, so I couldn't creep around much without leaving tracks. Concrete floor, some old water stains on the rear wall. Disused furnace and what was probably a coal bin, empty now, and beside that a more modern HVAC system. I used the GPR unit to sound out the basement floor—no telling what might be buried there—but aside from drainage pipes, nothing. Anyway, time was getting on, so I made sure everything was closed and that I hadn't left traces, then lefty by the back door and walked across the lawn. When I got off the property, I remotely re-armed the system, got a positive ping, and that was that. I have photos, but I think only one is interesting. Here."

She showed them a picture of the back yard, from ground level. "There's the anomalous green patch," Ford said.

"This is night-vision, but color corrected," Hazard told them. "Director, the patch contains just grass. Same grass as the rest of the yard, but elsewhere it's pale, and here in this irregular oval it's deep green."

"It's been dry this month," Ford said. "Is there a sprinkler active in that one area?"

"I checked, but none showed up. However, beneath that area, at a depth ranging from three to eight feet, there's a solid base. Almost solid."

"What could cause that?" Stanley asked. "Fall-out shelter?"

Wendy said, "Old swimming pool. Filled in."

Hazard grinned at her. "Honey, I so want you on my team!"

Stan glanced at his brother. "OK, somebody got tired of the swimming pool and shoveled in some dirt. So what's the payoff? I don't get it."

Slowly, Ford said, "What if they weren't just filling in the pool? What if they were burying something?"

"Treasure!" Mabel said.

"No," Ford said solemnly. "A body."

* * *


	14. Escalation

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**14-Escalation**

"Ah-haha!" Mabel chortled. "Good one, Grunkle Ford! A body! Ha-ha! Uh, of course, you're kidding . . . uh, aren't you?" She looked around as if seeking support.

Ford didn't meet her gaze. "I'm afraid I'm not. Ah—this is difficult to express in words."

"And ya don't know how to do interpretive dance," growled Grunkle Stan. "For Pete's sake, Ford, just spill it. We're all in this together, right?"

Ford sat for a moment biting his lower lip. Then he looked to Agent Hazard. "What do you say? I need your advice."

She leaned back in her chair, her hands on the table before her, right resting on left. "Sorry, Director. That's above my pay grade. The buck stops with you."

"That term comes from poker, ya know," Stan said conversationally.

Ford didn't respond, but drew a deep breath. "What I am about to tell you is seriously confidential. If you remain in the room to hear it, you can never tell anyone about it, ever. You'll have to swear."

"Damn it, we won't!" Mabel said.

Dipper said, "Not that kind of swear!" To the others he apologized, "Ever since she was in _Avenue Q,_ Mabel's been using, a more, uh, mature vocabulary. I swear not to tell, Grunkle Ford."

So did Teek, Mabel (again, and in more proper form), and Wendy. Stan said in an unusually serious tone, "I swear on the lives of my family that whatever I hear will go with me to the grave."

"And Agent Hazard has already sworn a solemn oath," Ford said.

She began to speak, but he held up a hand. "No, I'll tell it. I won't reveal precisely how we discovered certain bits of information, though." He picked up a pen and absently tapped it on the table, like a metronome, for about ten seconds. Then he said, "I have a theory that Burnwald Punt isn't the original Burnwald Punt who was born in Gravity Falls. You've all seen the photos that gave me the initial suspicion. We've dug into the records, some here, some at the state capital, some even federal. The long story made short is that there is indirect evidence that the original Burnwald Punt died, most probably in that house, when he was a toddler, two years and some months old."

Wendy said, "But this is a small town. How would the family keep that secret?"

"They didn't completely," Ford said. "We found a few elderly people with memories of the Punts—faded memories, since they moved from the town sixty-eight years ago. Our informants are aged eighty to ninety now, and they have told us that the Punts were always standoffish. They did little socializing, mostly with the Northwests and with wealthy families outside the Valley. One older lady told us—" he referred to some notes—"'I was just a little girl, but my parents talked about how stuck-up they were.'"

Hazard said, "With your permission, Director?"

"Yes, but the rest of you remember, I bear all responsibility. Go ahead, Agent Hazard."

She nodded. Glancing around at the others, she said, "We believe that something happened to the original child between July 4, 1950—we uncovered a group photograph that appeared in the Gravity Falls newspaper a couple of days after that of an Independence Day gathering at the lake, and though it's too grainy and the figures are too small to make out any detail, the Punt family is visible a little off to the side and toward the back of the crowd. The boy, who would have been about two and a half, is sitting on his mother's lap. It looks like the same child as in the photo Dr. Pines showed you of the family taken a few months before."

Ford said, "So much is public record. What follows is not. In those days there was a local doctor in town, Dr. Higgens. He was a general practitioner and took care of all the illness, accidents, and childbirths in the town. Up until July first of 1950, he saw young Burnwald for bimonthly check-ups, as well as for three childhood diseases. He should have seen him again for his physical on September first but did not. The medical record indicates that the appointment was canceled and there is a notation that the parents had decided to take him to a pediatrician up in Mossy Run."

"They didn't," Hazard said. "Anyway, the medical records for both Dr. Glass and Dr. Whecomb—the only two pediatricians with practices there—don't record anything for a Punt family."

Dipper glanced at Wendy, who took his hand: — _I got it, Dip. Doctor-patient confidentiality. It's way illegal for them to look at those._

_I just never thought that Ford would have the Guys in Black do stuff like that._

"What makes that troubling," Ford said, "is that the woman I spoke off occasionally baby-sat for the Punts during that summer. She says Burnwald was a quiet little boy, and on the occasions when she took care of him, perhaps six weekend nights in that year, he was no trouble. She would feed him dinner, read him a story, and tuck him in about 7:30 PM. He always went to sleep.

"But Mr. and Mrs. Punt stopped calling on her some time in July, she thinks, or perhaps August. At the same time, they suddenly fired their servants—"

"La di dah!" Stan said. "Servants yet!"

Ford said, "Well, many wealthier families did have help back then, you know, either live-in servants or ones who came in for the day. They had three, a maid, a cook, and a man of all work. The ladies shared the attic bedroom, the man came in just for the day and lived in town. Anyway, the cook was our informant's aunt, and she says her aunt was terribly bitter about being fired one morning with absolutely no warning. The Punts didn't hire any other servants after that."

Hazard added, "And from what we could find, no one saw Burnwald after that, either, at least until early November. The Punts had decided to move by then. Another one of our witnesses, an elderly man who at that time was a teenager, was hired to help them pack up and load some things to be shipped to New York. He saw the child—or a child—one or two times, but curiously, Mrs. Punt kept the boy bundled up, even inside. She told the witness that he'd been ill for weeks. In fact, she claimed the main reason they were moving was to find better medical care for him."

"Wait," Dipper said. "What if that was true? Maybe he got sick in August and instead of taking him to his normal doctor's appointment the Punts took him to a specialist or something."

"There's more," Ford said. He passed around sheets of paper—all photocopies of the same newspaper column. "This is from the _Gravity Falls Frontier Chronicle—_ a newspaper that folded in 1959—and the date of the issue is August 8, 1950, a Tuesday. The paper came out only on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays back then. The relevant entry is circled."

Dipper took a copy and passed one to Wendy. "The obituaries?" he asked. He looked at the circled entry:

* * *

_CHAMBRON, Hermes Nicolas, 2. Son of Abramelin and Cordelia Chambron, of a sudden illness, on Wednesday morning. Services private._

* * *

Wendy was quicker on the uptake than Dipper: "So you think the Punt boy died and the Chambron boy took his place? Is that it?"

"We can't prove it," Ford said. "However, the Chambrons were a poor family. Yet somehow that September they had enough money to buy a brand-new automobile. The husband and wife moved away only about a week before the Punts departed for New York. They simply abandoned their house, which the neighbors quickly burned to the ground."

"You mean they sold their baby?" Mabel asked in an outraged tone. "The Punt boy died and his parents just bought a replacement? That's terrible!"

Stanley frowned. "Chambron, Chambron," he said. "Did they live in that spot up on Deer Creek road? The one they call the Haunted Hollow?"

"You heard about that?" Ford asked, blinking.

"Well, yeah," Stan said. "Don't forget, Ford, I've lived in this burg longer than you have! I heard a couple stories about the Chambron family. None good."

"What about them?" Mabel asked.

Stan shrugged. "Well, for one thing, they were supposed to be devil worshipers."

Wendy said, "But to sell their own kid—" She didn't finish.

"There's nothing in that demon stuff anyway," Stan said.

"Well," Ford said slowly, "perhaps there isn't, perhaps there is. It's troubling that the Punt boy apparently died—apparently, mind, we don't have proof—about the first of August."

"How come?" Stan asked.

"Because that is Lammas," Ford said. "Or in Celtic terms, Lughnasa. A special day in the witches' calendar, the sorcerer's wheel of time. In legend, it's an occasion for evil magicians to join in a Sabbat, a dark festival. It's the harvest feast, the gathering of the crops, a time of . . . of well, sacrifice."

"Human?" Dipper asked.

Ford simply nodded.

* * *

How Burnwald Punt did it so quickly no one knew. Of course, he had money—maybe borrowed money, but he had plenty of it—and that could accomplish many things. However he managed it, on Saturday morning new TV spots showed up in Gravity Falls. Some of them had sketches of Gnomes, not looking as they did, bearded little men and round-faced little women, but twisted, evil-looking monsters. Very carefully, the scripts did not actually slander the Gnomes, but they implied plenty:

* * *

_People of Gravity Falls, do you worry about your job security? Your privacy? Even the safety of your daughters and wives? Have you seen these creatures near your homes? Can you trust them? Burnwald Punt says they have no place in a human society. Elect him, and he'll take care of the Gnome problem once and for all. Burnwald Punt says, "Gravity Falls for the people—and only the people!" Elect Burnwald Punt Mayor, and make Gravity Falls safe for your family!_

* * *

The spots ended with an artist's rendition: the split cliffs that were the gateway into the Valley, but closed by a curved concrete wall that reached all the way to the top of the surrounding cliffs. And the metal sign that had replaced the old rusting trestle—the one that read WELCOME TO GRAVITY FALLS—had been replaced by one bolted to the concrete wall: GRAVITY FALLS, HUMANS ONLY.

Other ads for Punt hinted that the Gnomes were behind everything annoying or alarming—mutated animals, illnesses and accidents, even bad weather.

Paranoia is an odd condition. It's not physical—but it is contagious.

People in the Falls were talking.

The Gnomes noticed that when they passed by, those people stared at them and stopped talking.

Jeff even spoke to Stan about it on Saturday: "What have we done to make people scared of us?"

"Nothin'," Stan said. "It's all Punt's doing. He's got no record to stand on, no program, so he's using you guys to stir up fear. Once he loses the election, he won't hang around. You'll see. People are fair if you give 'em time. Things will go back to normal."

Jeff muttered. "Normal. But this is Gravity Falls."

* * *


	15. Festering Wounds

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**15-Festering Wounds**

From _The Sorcerer's Vade Mecum: A Compendium of Magical Doctrines, Beliefs, Superstitions, and Practices in Britain and the Continent,_ by Simiol Lenoir (pseudonym of Arthur Smedley). London: 1757.

* * *

From Chapter XLVII, _Of the Infamous Magistri Mundi_

 _. . . .Lastly, of these Sects or Scions of the_ Magistri Mundi _order of Magicians, one hath in the Realm of Scotland done much mischief, and of that one now I must write. It hath been neglected because of the Smallness of its Numbers. True it is, however, that this trifling Congregation of rogue or runagate Sorcerers are most dark and secret of their Order and protective of its Mysteries, yea, even to Murder and great Acts of Violence. However insignificant its Number, yet it hath been the Fountainhead and Source of most grave Mischiefs. Read on, therefore, at thy Peril._

_About the Time of the Glorious Revolution, when in Scotland the Dissenters from the Deposition of James II, or, as the Scotch were pleased to style him, James VII, there began the great Agitation for the restoration of the Stuart line; nor would these Adherents to King James be satisfied, if James or his Heir were merely restor'd to the title King of Scotland, no, they held that he should also rule over England, Wales, and Ireland._

_Following the Death of the Exil'd James in 1701, a small Gathering of these unsatisfied Subjects of His Majesty, King William III, in Scotland turn'd not to Speeches in the Streets, nor to the Publication of Broadside Rantngs, but to the Dark Arts in hopes to win their Goal, viz., to put Charles Stuart, son of James II, upon the throne._

_As we have seen in this Chapter, the chiefest Secret Magickal Society in Europe was the aforesaid_ Magistri Mundi, _whose Acolytes cast diverse Spells and resorted to foul Poisons to do unto Death any who oppos'd or discover'd them. In Scotland, so few as perhaps a Score or Two of the adherents of the ways and means of the_ Magistri _styled themselves the_ Trianguli Obumbratio, _that is, Shadows of the Triangle, the three Sides of the Figure being conceived as REBELLION, FORCE, and WIZARDRY,_ _working equally to force the Succession of Prince Charles to the throne and to bring the Wizards or Witches who practic'd the group's Rites great Wealth and Power._

_One of those who Organised this Brotherhood of Shadows was Pierre Chambroun. His particular Infamy was, that he is said to have called a Demon of Hell to cast out the soul of Chambroun's own Infant Son, and to take its place within the Body; so that the Son grew to be a Man void of all human Feeling, implacable in his Drive for Power and for Money; and, withal, to become the Brotherhood secret and most evil Counsel and Advice, forwarding the Success of their wicked Schemes._

_This son, Michael or Michel Chambroun, as we understand, in the middle Years of his Life, fled to the American Colonies when the Jacobites failed in their last Effort to overthrow King George II and replace him with Charles, the Stuart claimant. I have heard tell, that as of my writing this in the Year of Our Lord 1747, this Chambroun is still being sought, to be tried for Treason._

_The Magic Spells and Charmes that Pierre Chambroun was said to have full mastery over include the following…._

* * *

Dipper closed the antique book, one of his collection of works on paranormal subjects. It was in only fair condition—some foxing on the pages, a few bookworm holes—and a tedious read, but he liked the volume—oddly, because it had a dusty, faintly spicy scent. "I knew I remembered that name from someplace."

Wendy had been reading over his shoulder. "What are you thinking, Dip? This Chambron character who sold his kid to the Punts—maybe—was a descendant of Pierre?"

"Maybe," Dipper said. "But what really worries me is the name of the coven— _Trianguli Obumbratio_ , 'Shadows of the Triangle.'"

"Bill Cipher," Wendy said.

"Could have been." Both Dipper and Wendy knew that Cipher tried for thousands of years to infiltrate the human world. He never could find any place where the humans had enough power to open a way for him, but he supposedly had dealings with everybody from the ancient Egyptians to George Washington. And somehow, at some time, he found Gravity Falls. Even before it got its name, Cipher was trying to persuade Native Americans to worship him.

"Sure," Wendy said gently. "And in the end, he got through because Gravity Falls is such a sinkhole of weirdness. So maybe Bill guided a magically-minded descendant of Chambroun to the Valley to practice his magic and grease the way so Cipher could come into our world?"

"It's a big maybe," Dipper said. "Just hypotheticals and possibilities. We need to know more. I got Grunkle Stan to tell me about this Haunted Hollow. Do you know where it is?"

"Never heard of the place," Wendy said. "But I know Deer Creek Road real well. Let's go see if we can find it. Maybe Chambron left something that could give us a clue."

"It's been nearly seventy years, and the place supposedly burned to the ground, so there's probably nothing left. But I guess we could try. I'll get our protective unicorn-hair necklaces. You get your axe."

Wendy turned and lifted her hair. "Way ahead of you, man."

"Your silver-edged axe, not the magic one?" Dipper asked.

"Yep. 'Cause this one's helped us out in the Valley before now."

"If you're sure."

She turned around again. "Positive, Dip. So—are we inviting Mabel along?"

Dipper hesitated only momentarily. "I don't think so. This is just a scouting trip. We'll be extra alert and extra careful. Seventy years . . . long time. And unless the old story about Michael Chambroun embodying a demon are true, and I'll bet they're not, surely the Chambron who lived there couldn't be, you know, the same guy."

"Great-great-great grandson, possibly," Wendy gave him an understanding smile. "One way to find out for sure."

"Yeah," Dipper agreed. "Only—well, Billy's not happy about himself right now. Puberty's hitting him, I guess, and—he's got a lot of ordinary human things to worry about. If I have to, I'll call him for advice, but—let's go snoop first, OK?"

"Stand up." He did, she put her arms over his shoulders, and she pulled him in for a kiss. "For luck," she said. Then she kissed him again. "And tonight, now that I'm feeling better, you just might get luckier!"

* * *

They left a note for Stan—they weren't complete idiots—but since he was out schmoozing voters, he probably wouldn't read it for at least a few hours. Wendy insisted on driving the Green Machine, so Dipper, in the passenger seat, kept a lookout. "Stan told me the place is on a slope about ten miles from town," he said. "Flat place on the right. Trees look funny there, he said."

"We're nine miles from the city limit now," Wendy said, "so look sharp. No traffic back in here, so let me know how slow you want me to go."

The road rose, the car tilted to a twenty-degree angle, and they crept along. Twice Dipper asked, "Think that might be it?"

And both times Wendy ad vetoed the possibility. "Trees look normal here."

Third time, though, might have been the charm. The road, still rising to the top of a ridge, leveled out almost completely for a twenty-yard stretch, and Dipper said, "Pull off, I think this might be it."

The right shoulder was narrow—erosion had cut a two-foot-deep gully along beside the asphalt—but Wendy made the most of it. Even so, Dipper had to hop down when he got out of the passenger side. "What do you think?"

The flat spot was roughly circular and about fifty feet across. The pines at the fringe around it did look sick—not the usual deep green, but an ugly, purple-blotted green, the branches corkscrewed. No trees grew in the clearing, but the grass sprouted in random splotches, some clumps with feathery tops, others with leaves that drooped and bent. "Foxtail and needlegrass," Wendy said. "Some ryegrass, too. Sometimes that's planted as lawns. Look like they've all been poisoned, though."

"I don't see anything that looks like a house."

"Maybe that hillock in the middle."

Only a hump of earth with some straggling tussocks of grass, it didn't seem promising—too small to be a house, Dipper thought. But they approached it and Wendy tugged some bunches of grass loose, and their tangled roots held small clods of earth and what looked like ancient, charred wood. "Might be it," she said. "I'm gonna get the camp shovel from the trunk."

The shovel was only two feet long—it folded for storage—and was more of an entrenching tool than a real shovel, but taking turns, Dipper and Wendy dug into the mound until they struck what was undeniably old burned wood, the ashes so crumbly they came out more like blackish clay. Mingled in the shovelfuls, though, they saw some extremely rusty nails.

"Bingo," Wendy said. "No sense in digging out this whole thing. We're not looking for archeology here. Check it with your anomaly detector, Dip."

He took the compact version of the device from his backpack. Ford had given it to him years ago, and in fact Fiddleford's constant tinkering had improved the larger official devices so they were much more accurate and sensitive. Still, Old Reliable would at least signal the presence of anything paranormal and would zero in on a source if the signal came strongly enough.

Like a prospector with a Geiger counter or a beachcomber with a metal detector, Dipper paced off a grid, beginning in the center, atop the mound and working out from there. "High background reading, general paranormal wavelength," he said. "It's about twelve to fifteen percent above what you'd expect. It's not centered on anything, though. Stronger near the mound, but no definite pings, like—wait a second. Something here."

The detector flashed a green light and on the small screen concentric yellow circles formed and shrank. Dipper put a toe on the ground. "Whatever it is, it's right here."

"Stand back," Wendy said.

Digging was easy in the mound—the decomposed ashes were soft and unconglomerated. The volcanic soil of the hillside lay far more dense and hard-packed. Wendy grunted a little as she forced the shovel into the earth and levered out chunks. Dipper said, "I'll take a turn. You watch the detector."

"OK, thanks," Wendy said. "Should've brought gloves. We're both gonna get blisters."

One spadeful, two, and then the blade grated on something hard. "This is pretty big," Dipper said. "Is that pottery?"

"Looks like it," Wendy said. A jug? Like one of the old-timey liquor jugs you see in cartoons?"

"I think it is!" Dipper said.

It took them a half-hour of digging and then some wiggling of it back and forth—it seemed to have been buried upside-down—but finally they pried up out. It was not a jug, but a cylindrical pot made from brown stoneware with white and black speckles.

"It's a butter crock, I guess," Wendy said. "The lid's been melted on or glued on or something."

They scanned it, and the anomaly detector didn't like it. The screen showed a row of nine lights. The rightmost one was green, the next three yellow, the last six ruby-red.

"Your device thinks it's like sixty per cent dangerous," Wendy said. "What do we do? Leave it?"

Dipper turned it over and over. "Feels like there's something inside, but it might just be heavy. The lid's really sealed tight, too. My guess is that whatever might be dangerous is shut inside. Let's take it to Grunkle Ford. I'm not about to try to open it."

"Come on, then."

Dipper lugged the crock to the car—it might only hold half a gallon, but it felt as if it had been filled with lead—and Wendy opened the trunk. "Let's wrap my sleeping bag around it," Wendy said. "Keep it from being busted if it jostles around."

They did, tying the improvised wrapping with cord.

Concentrating on that, they noticed nothing unusual. Heard nothing, either.

But when Wendy closed the trunk lid again, she stiffened. "Dude," she said in little more than a whisper, "look back at the mound."

By then the day had aged into late afternoon, and the sky was reddening toward sunset. It was too early for the newcomer to be out and about.

Dipper felt his arms prickling. Goosebumps.

A bird perched on the mound they had disturbed and stared at them with what seemed to be angry eyes.

"An owl," Dipper said.

"Great Gray Owl," Wendy said. "Really rare. I've only seen photos."

"Gray?" Dipper asked. The round-faced bird was so dark that its beak and great staring green eyes contrasted with the rest of it. "This one's jet-black."

Wendy had eased her camera out and took three quick photos. "Melanistic mutation, maybe," she said. "I don't like the way it's staring at us. Let's go."

They got in the car and she started the engine. When they drove uphill, away from town, the owl still perched there, its head turning to keep them in sight. When she had a chance, Wendy made a U-turn. In four minutes, they passed by the clearing again.

"Still there," Wendy said.

Dipper leaned to look out the driver's side window. "Yeah I see-whoa!

"What?"

"It's gone now."

"Flew away."

"No," Dipper said slowly. "It just faded."

* * *


	16. Dirty Work

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**16-Dirty Work**

Dipper got the impression that Ford was living in his shielded lab beneath the Shack. A tray held dishes and a glass, along with food scraps—a salad bowl with a few shreds of lettuce, a plate with a corner of a roll and the skin from a chicken breast, with scattered grains of rice, a tumbler with a quarter-inch of water in it, probably melted ice from a glass of sparkling water. A blanket draped over the only comfortable chair in the room, and a pillow rested on it. Ford, normally fastidious, had not shaved and his chin bristled with five o'clock shadow.

Not entirely to Dipper's surprise, Ford had quickly isolated the stoneware crock in a containment cage—like a small-animal cage but wired for electricity and equipped with a black box of electronics that shielded it even within the shielded room. It sat on the floor, off to one side, humming with a faint electric buzz.

"Thank you," Ford said, visibly sweating as he checked the shielded crock with an anomaly detector. "It's neutralized for the time being. That was resourceful of you, although I really wish you had consulted me first. This might be extraordinarily dangerous."

"We took care with it," Wendy said. "Any news on this end?"

"Rather grim news," Ford said, his expression haggard. "We found something, or rather the Gnomes did. You won't want to see it."

Dipper and Wendy looked at each other, both sensing how disturbed Ford, good stoic Ford, must feel. "A body?" Dipper guessed in a low voice.

Slowly, quietly, Ford murmured, "Bones of a child. The Gnomes tunneled in from behind the yard and reached the old foundation of the pool. They discovered what I believe to be a decayed satchel—barely scraps now—and within it a skeleton huddled in a fetal position. The bag, the satchel, whatever it was, kept the material from excessive degradation, so—well. In short, Fiddleford was able to isolate a sample and is extracting and analyzing DNA. He'll compare it to an existing sample of Punt DNA to see if there's a match."

"From Mr. Punt?" Dipper asked, surprised.

"No, no, from a cousin in New York, a criminal. I won't specify his crimes, but his DNA was processed about three years ago. If the child was related, we should be able to tell. If the boy was a Punt, well, I hope we can go further from there."

"Creepy," Wendy said, hugging her upper arms.

"How about the link between Punt and the _Trianguli Obumbratio_ coven?" Dipper asked.

Ford adjusted his spectacles. "Mason, you discovered an odd corner of lore that I have never heard of," he said. "The _Magistri Mundi_ , yes, most scholars of paranormality know of them. Of course the name means 'Master of the World," _world_ in this sense meaning the, um, mundane realm, the realm of human activities, as opposed to spiritual dimensions. The master the adherents served is a purely theoretical entity, a force more than a personality, that can give its followers power over material things."

"Shadows of the _triangle,_ Dr. P," Wendy said, stressing the word 'triangle.'

"Yes, yes, certainly suspicious," Ford said with a frown. "Bill Cipher may—just may—have been involved, if not in the overall philosophical movement, then at least in the Shadows subset. That's far from impossible. In those years Cipher was always invading people's dreams, tempting them with offers of knowledge and achievement. I learned that to my everlasting shame and regret when for a time I accepted him as my Muse."

"What are the odds that Cipher was the Master?" Dipper asked.

Ford made a scale of his two twelve-fingered hands. "Fifty-fifty, perhaps. After all, the triangle is a universal human symbol, and not every triangle is meant to evoke Cipher. Sometimes, as Sigmund Freud said, a cigar is just a cigar."

"Huh?" Dipper asked.

Wendy said, "As opposed to a phallic symbol." She couldn't help giggling. "Dipper, you don't have to blush!"

"Sorry!"

"I will have to—very carefully, of course—examine this container before even advancing a hypothesis. You're reluctant to get in touch with Billy Sheaffer?"

Dipper said, "I will if you tell me to. We chat online or by text three or four times a week, and right now he's really moody and unhappy. His body's going through changes, and the girl he's been friends with is sort of drifting away from him. He's a little fragile emotionally, and I hate to—"

"I understand," Ford said. "For the time being, we'll do the best with what we have. Thank you again, and if you don't mind, take this." He handed Dipper a small flat device, about half the size of a cell phone. "Keep it with you tonight, and if I need help, I'll press the panic button to signal you. Come down as soon as you can, but use extreme caution, and before you enter this room, make sure you're talking to me."

"Maybe I'd better just stay with you," Dipper said.

"No." The refusal sounded gentle but firm. "A sealed container like this—well, it could be a great many things. And most of them involve risk. I know what I'm doing, and I'll exercise every caution, but if you will merely listen for the alarm to go off, that's as much as I can in conscience ask of you."

Wendy asked, "Will the shielding around this lab keep anything bad from busting out?"

Ford nodded. "I think there's no danger of any creature or force escaping."

Turning to Dipper, Wendy said, "Get the air mattresses from the closet, and I'll get our sleeping bags from the car. Dr. P, don't argue with us. We're gonna sleep in the next room just in case you need us in a hurry."

 _So much for getting lucky tonight,_ Dipper thought, immediately feeling a pang of guilt.

* * *

About an hour later, Dr. Fiddleford McGucket's genetic analyzer was in the experimental stage. So far it had worked splendidly, though the task he had assigned it was a sad one. As soon as it had finished, he fed in the results from the DNA record of Warren Punt, a first cousin, presumably, of Burnwald's father.

McGucket whistled. He picked up the secure phone and called Ford, who answered immediately: "What have you found, old friend?"

"Rounding up, twelve per cent," McGucket said. "That there little fellow was sure-enough a Punt. Reckon we could git our hands on a sample from Burnwald his own self?"

"That may be possible. At the debate, he drank from a bottle of water. At my suggestion Stanley salvaged that and I advised him to preserve it. I'll have it sent straight to you. You're not on campus alone?"

"Not hardly. Chesley is guardin' the door, and I got the night man, Hervey, keepin' watch over the security system for the whole dang building. Nothin' so far. Quiet evening."

"I've told Stanley to make sure the bottle is secure and untouched. I'll call him and see if he can bring it to you."

"Okee-dokee, Ford. Lissen, though—I dunno if Burnwald could rightly be charged with any funny business in this little tyke's death. He wouldn've been jest a li'l shaver back when it happened. Reckon that it'd be his daddy who was responsible, but he's dead. Still, if Burnwald's been gettin' rich by playin' like he's this poor little kid all growed up, don't let him get off Scot free."

"We'll do our best," Ford promised.

* * *

"Let us!" Mabel said.

"I dunno," Stanley muttered. "I'm kinda tired but running an errand like this just might be dangerous."

"I've got my grappling hook!"

Teek, at Mabel's elbow, added, "Let me borrow one of your baseball bats."

"Ha! Good man! OK, I think you knuckleheads would be safe enough. Mabel, don't drive your car, though. Teek, you drive, let Mabel be the lookout, OK?"

They agreed. Stan had carefully put the capped, nearly empty bottle in a paper bag. He dug it out and said, "Don't open the bag until you hand it over to old man McGucket. You get the idea you're bein' followed, you call me, y'understand?"

"The bag feels empty," Mabel said. "What's in it?"

"None of your beeswax," Stan said. "Let McGucket worry about that. Listen, kids, you drive over, drop this off, and then drive straight back, got me? Call me soon as you've done it, and call me again when you get back home. And watch out for anyone trying to trail you. Here, this is McGucket's secret phone number. And if you gotta call me, use the Stan-S line, not my normal one."

"Sure, sure," Mabel said. For over a year, every member of the Pines family had two cell phone numbers, one the normal one, the other an encrypted one—the _S_ meant "secure."

Mabel drove her Rav4, Black Beauty, to Teek's house, where they changed to his silver Focus. "Keep it at the speed limit," Mabel said. "I'll make sure nobody's following."

Twilight had settled in, and Teek switched on his headlights. Despite Mabel's urging, Teek drove sedately. Mabel kept up a constant commentary on an imaginary police radio: "Heading out of town, due east! A suspicious vehicle is behind us. Wait, it's a lumber truck, probably not a bad guy. Ugh, there's Punt's stupid billboard! We're crossing the East Bridge, the coast is clear ahead. Nobody behind us . . . through the cliffs and out of the Valley . . . Turning onto the highway . . .. Headlights behind us, Teek, take evasive action!"

"I don't think they're following us," Teek said. "That car didn't come out of the Valley."

"Keep an eye on them, anyway!"

It turned off after a few miles, and the rest of the way, no headlights appeared to be pacing them. Before long Teek reached the Institute, but Mabel insisted that Teek drive past the campus, make a U-turn, and come back. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"There was a car coming toward us," she said. "The U-turn shook them. I wanted you to wait until there weren't any other cars around before turning onto the campus."

They didn't have the high-security remote, so they parked as close as they could to the front entrance to the main building. Mabel called McGucket's secure number and he said, "You just wait where you set till I kin come down and open up for you. Then hustle over to me with the bag, and you git on home. Be there in two shakes."

"Everybody's being so suspicious!" Mabel said. She speed-dialed Stanley, and when he answered, she said, "We're here, and everything's OK. Talk to you later!"

In about half a minute—two pretty long shakes, Mabel thought—they saw McGucket unlock the front door. Both Teek and Mabel hopped out and hurried over. "Here you are!" Mabel said, handing the paper bag over. "Who's that?"

"Night watchman," McGucket said. "Thanks, Mabel. Now git back to the Valley and don't let nobody run you off the road."

"Not on my watch!" Mabel said.

McGucket hurried back inside, the watchman double-locked the classroom building door, and Mabel said, "Hey, Teek! Let me drive on the way back, all right?"

* * *

The very moment that McGucket probed the dregs of water in the plastic bottle—when anyone drinks from a bottle, some saliva backwashes in—and about thirty miles away, Burnwald Punt paused as he sawed with his knife at the thick steak on his plate. He frowned, staring at something that no one else could see, something that lay out there far beyond the restaurant.

"What are they up to?" he muttered. He forked a chunk of rare steak into his mouth and his jaws worked as he chewed it. "They got something of mine. What do they have?"

Unusually for him, Punt pushed the plate away and raised his hand. "Over here!" he yelled, making heads turn. Probably some of the other diners recognized him from the TV. They murmured.

The waitress hurried over. "Yes, sir?"

"Check," he said. "Wait, how much is it?"

"Thirty-eight—" she started.

He handed her two twenties. "There."

"You haven't even finished half—" the waitress began.

He ignored her. She muttered, "Thanks for the one-dollar tip!"

He paid no attention. In the well-lighted lot behind the restaurant, his driver, Mick Mitchell, sat in the car, eating a sandwich. When Punt ripped the back door open, Mitchell started so violently that he dropped his food. "Sir!"

"Start the engine," Punt said. "Get me back to Gravity Falls. Now!"

"I spilled some—"

"I'll dock your pay for it. Dammit, get moving. Now!"

Knowing that objecting would only land him in deeper trouble, Mitchell put the limo in gear and headed back to Gravity Falls.

* * *


	17. Collision Course

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**17-Collision Course**

Gnomes have always had some trouble understanding humans. That may be because in most of the world, humans and Gnomes do not interact—at most, a man reeling home from having a right old good time with his mates at the pub might catch a fleeting moonlit glimpse of a tiny person with a conical red hat dashing across his path and vanishing in the brush. That kind of encounter produces folklore, but little in the way of inter-species understanding.

The first thing a Gnome wonders when encountering an unknown creature is "Can I eat it?" The first thing a human thinks when encountering an unknown creature is "Kill it!"

Only three places in the world have seen anything like cooperation and peaceful coexistence between Gnomes and people. Two of them we don't need to worry about, but the third is, you guessed it, Gravity Falls. Dipper once wrote in Ford's Journal 3, "This journal told me there was no one in Gravity Falls I could trust. But when you battle a hundred gnomes side-by-side with someone, you realize that they've probably always got your back."

A Gnome might have written, "Our Lore tells us there is no human in Gravity Falls we could trust. But when you stand side by side with humans and fight off a demon and all his army and save the world, you realize that some humans probably won't kill and eat you."

 _Trust_ is a hard concept for a Gnome to master. However, over the years since Weirdmageddon, little by little the Gnomes of Gravity had come to accept, and be accepted by, Humans. At first the interactions were at best tentative and full of apprehension.

For the life of them Gnomes could not understand why Humans would throw away perfectly good rotten food, just at the peak of piquancy that appealed to one's appetite. More, they could not understand why a Human, having discarded something they obviously did not want, would object when a Gnome took it away to put it to good use. Gnomes liked rats—not as friends, squirrels filled that niche—but as entrees. Humans seemed to despise them, trapping them, shooting them, poisoning them. What the big people didn't want, the wee folk could.

Progress was not exactly slow, not exactly rapid. Months after Weirdmageddon, the Gnomes—who liked Stanley Pines because he had opened the doors of the protected Mystery Shack to them when Bill Cipher was running rampant—worked out a rapport with first Soos, and then later Stan: They would remove all the edible garbage from the Shack at no cost, and they would make sure that the mice and rats that now and then invaded the building (mostly after the first frost of fall) were taken away and humanely disposed of, often in a fennel sauce.

When Stan and Ford returned from their Arctic expedition, Stan, ever the entrepreneur, talked up the Gnomes as pest-control experts and solid-waste managers to others in town, and before you knew it, the Gnomes began to provide service to the other humans in the valley. At first, they did it for a fee split with Stan, one that no one could refuse: Two bucks a month took care of garbage disposal and pest control. As agent, Stan got one dollar, as talent the Gnomes got one.

Eventually the bookkeeping became more bother than it was worth, and Stan turned over the business to the Gnomes entirely. Money wasn't an entirely new concept to them, though they were more comfortable with barter, but they caught on to this new medium of exchange. Things went smoothly, and everyone got along.

Until Punt had showed up in the Valley, Gnomes and humans were on good, friendly, mutually beneficial terms. The big people grew to appreciate the arrangement and they stopped thinking of Gnomes as little evil robbers.

As for Gnomes, they had never thought of themselves as thieves, and they would never knowingly take something of value from a human.

Until now. Two Gnomes, Shale (a former Feral) and Bobo (a Civilized) crept into the Mystery Shack under cover of darkness. Bobo had visited the place often—he was one of the troupe of Dancing Gnomes who entertained five days a week in tourist season—and he led the way up to the attic. Both Gnomes sniffed the air. Lots of Human scents, but none streong. No one was in the bedroom.

The door was shut, and opening it was a gymnastic performance for a couple of Gnomes to reach the knob, but they did it. "Come on," Bobo said. "You know what we're looking for."

They were meticulous. Not even Dipper, who still had paranoid impulses, would suspect they had rummaged through his stuff. The Gnomes found what they had been sent for. Shale asked, "Are we bad if we take this?"

"No. We're not stealing it," Bobo pointed out. "We're just borrowing it indefinitely."

"What's Jeff going to do with it?" Shale wondered. "If anything is a threat, we can just form up—"

"Don't worry about that. We don't need to know. OK, put it on my back. There! Not so heavy. Now you go first down the stairs. Wait, first close the door, quietly. Good. As soon as we get to the edge of the forest, we'll blink to Jeff and give this to him."

"We might get spotted inside the house. There's the dog. I can hear him snuffling."

"He's shut in Mabel's room. Hurry."

They reached the foot of the stairs. "Let's blink now!"

Patiently, Bobo said, "The house is surrounded in a unicorn-hair protective field. If we tried to blink inside it, we'd explode. This way, quick."

Under the pale light of a waxing moon, the Gnomes scuttled across the dew-damp lawn, in the direction of the Bottomless Pit, and just past it, there they weren't any longer.

Though neither Gnome had noticed it, a large black owl perched on the ridge of the Shack roof. It had been watching them intently. When they vanished, both at once, the owl nodded thoughtfully to itself.

Then it resumed its sentinel duty. Waiting. Just waiting.

And, of course, _watching._

* * *

"Whoa!" Mabel yelped, stamping on the brake pedal. The Focus swerved way over into the wrong lane, barely missing a limousine that had just wrenched in a tight turn from the highway into the Valley, cutting her off.

Teek reached over and helped her with the steering wheel, and when they finally came to a stop, it was in a drift of bluish smoke and the scent of scorched tires. "You OK?" Teek asked.

Gasping, her voice shaky, Mabel replied, "I'm OK. Whoever was driving that bus is a poop head!"

"Want me to drive?"

She shook her head. "Thanks, I got it. Let's drive a couple of miles to that roadside picnic area and I can turn around there. I don't want to pull a U-turn here, it's too hard to see what might be coming."

Teek sounded a bit panicky himself. "Good idea. Take it easy, though. I think that was Mr. Punt's car. Nobody in the Valley drives a Roylls-Rolse."

"Well, he's a poop head and his driver is a poopy double poop head." She made the left turn into the little picnic area. "Think we better check the tires?"

"They feel OK?"

Mabel admitted, "I don't know. I'm kind of shaken up."

So Teek opened the glove compartment and found his emergency flashlight and they got out and did a walk-around. The tires looked all right—no sign of a flat, no hiss of escaping air, anyway—and Mabel let Teek drive back to the turn to the Valley. As they got close, Teek said, "Look on the highway. Skid marks."

"I'm sorry."

Teek hurried to say, "No, no, you were fine! If you hadn't reacted so quick, we would have had a head-on crash."

Mabel grumbled, "Why is he in such a hurry? What put a bug up his—"

"Ask me something I can answer," Teek said. "Who knows? From what I've seen, I think he's half crazy."

"I think you're half right," Mabel said as Teek parked at the curb in front of his family's house, behind Mabel's Rav4. "Here we are. Thanks for going with me, Teek. See you tomorrow." Mabel opened the passenger door, but Teek clasped her upper arm and pulled her back for a kiss.

"I'm going to follow you home," he said.

Nuzzling his cheek, Mabel sighed happily. "Aw, then I'll have to get Grunkle Stan to let me keep you!"

Teek chuckled. "Not such a bad idea. But I want to make sure you get home safely."

"Yeah," Mabel said, "but then you'll have to drive back here to your house, alone."

"I'll be careful," Teek said. "And I'll call you as soon as I get inside my house."

This time Mabel pulled him close. "You better, 'cause I love you. I'm not joking."

"I love you, too." One more kiss. "Now scoot. I'll follow right behind you."

Mabel climbed out, keys in hand, and used the remote entry fob to unlock Black Beauty. Being more cautious than she was usually, or even ever, she opened the back door first, checked the backseat and the cargo area—both empty—before getting behind the wheel. She locked the doors, started the engine, and pulled out carefully, and Teek fell in right behind her.

Gravity Falls is not a large town, and the drive through it and out the far side took only ten minutes, with no traffic to speak of—a few cars visible in the rear-view mirrors back on the town streets as they drove up the slope. As they reached the Shack, Mabel saw that all the lights were on—roof lights, porch lights, windows ablaze, the parking-lot arc lights full on, and high above in the sky cruised the lopsided moon, a few days from full.

Mabel got out of her car, locked it, and jumped with a squeak as someone touched her elbow. "Just me," Teek said. "I'll walk you in."

"Let me find my door key."

Teek steered her toward the gift-shop door. "No need," he said.

Mabel looked up. Dipper stood in the doorway. "I hope nothing's wrong!" she said.

"No, I called him on the way in," Teek said.

"Hi, Sis," Dipper said. "Teek. Come on in."

"I have to go home, thanks," Teek said. "Be sure to lock the door, OK?"

With his face paling, Dipper asked sharply, "What's the matter?"

"Mabel will tell you," Teek said.

Dipper stood aside for Mabel to come in, but she didn't enter right away. "Wait until Teek gets away, Dip."

They watched him start his silver Focus and do a three-point turn to head back toward his own house. "OK," Mabel said. "Lock up."

"What happened?" Dipper asked.

"Nothing, but it almost did. We were coming back from the Institute, and this big-ass limousine nearly crashed into us. I didn't see who was in it, but Teek says it's pukey Punt's car."

"I'm glad you're safe," Dipper said.

"Hey, where are you heading, Brobro?" Mabel asked as Dipper started to punch in the code on the vending machine pad to open the secret door.

"Grunkle Ford's experimenting with something. Wendy and I are gonna camp out on the floor outside the lab just in case he needs help fast."

Tripper was aware of them, and they could hear him scratching at Mabel's bedroom door. "I better let him out," Mabel said.

"I'll wait," Dipper told her.

Mabel stared at him with wide eyes. "This is really serious, isn't it?"

Dipper nodded. "Yeah. Afraid so. It's crazy—all this to be mayor of a dinky little place like our town. But Punt's . . . not a good guy."

They stood on the back porch while Tripper went out and did his business. As they waited, Mabel's phone rang—Teek's ringtone—startling both of them. "Hi," Mabel said. "Oh, good. Yeah, love you too. Be safe, OK? Hey, don't worry, I will be. I've got my grappling hook!" She laughed and then said, "You too." When she hung up, she told Dipper, "Teek got back home all right."

Tripper came in, Dipper closed and locked the door, and when they turned around, Tripper was in the kitchen, his paw pressed against the bottom cabinet door, where they kept a bag of doggie treats. "You con dog!" Mabel said. But she dug out a treat and then asked, "Hey, Dip? Mind if me and Tripper come down and stand guard with you and Wendy?"

"The more the merrier," Dipper said. "You'll need your sleeping bag. I'll get an extra air mattress. Oh, bring Trip's bed down, too."

They went down to the lab, Wendy, who was sitting on the floor reading, said, "Hi, Mabes. You OK? Teek said you had a scare."

"It was almost like that time I nearly hit the deer," Mabel said. "Near miss. But I'm OK, just jumpy."

It was a little like a very tense sleepover. The small anteroom to the secure lab had just about enough floor space for three sleeping bags and one doggie bed. "I'll bet Grunkle Ford will be awake all night," Dipper said.

"At least we'll keep him safe," Mabel said, yawning.

"Woof," added Tripper.

* * *

On the roof of the Shack, the owl's head swiveled toward town. Its pupils dilated. Almost as if it sensed prey, the raptor spread its wings and gave itself to the air, rising higher as it flew on silent wings toward town.

It headed for the highest point in the place, the old Northwest Mansion. Even from more than a mile away, as the owl flies, its sensitive eyes could see the pinpoints of headlights as a long car made the climb up the long, steep driveway.

_There._

_Yes, there._

Darkness calls to darkness, perhaps.

The dark owl flew as if drawn to a kindred spirit waiting in the night.

Yes.

There.

In the night.

* * *


	18. Alarums and Excursions

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**18-Alarums and Excursions**

McGucket, studying a complex readout sheet, phoned Ford not long after Mabel had returned to the Shack. "Stanford Pines here," Ford said in a voice fogged with weariness.

"You sound terribobble! You git any sleep?" Fiddleford asked.

"Um, what? A few minutes, in a chair. What time is it? Good heavens, that late? I still haven't found the safest way to—wait, have you already completed the analysis?"

"Shore!" McGucket said. "With my analyzers, it ain't as hard as jumpin' a five-bar gate with yore britches down 'round yore ankles. Ready for somethin' that ain't shocking? The bones are not from the Punt family atall. I got blood type, too. Couldn't git it fer Punt, he must not be a secretor, but the child had Type B blood. Might or might not—what the heck is that?"

A wailing alarm sounded. "Fiddleford, are you all right?" Ford shouted.

Fiddleford yelled back ovder the repetitions of _weeeee-oh, weeee-oh!_ "Burglar alarm. Somebody a-trying to bust in, I reckon. I'll git back to you, Ford. I gotta arm my dee-fences."

* * *

"Fiddleford!" Dr. Pines was shouting into a dead line. "Oh, my—" He slammed down the receiver and jumped up from the desk chair so forcefully that the chair toppled backward. Rumpled, with unkempt hair and a bristle of beard, Ford unlocked the door and rushed out, only to stumble over Mabel.

"Whoa! What's going on?" she yelled as they untangled themselves. Tripper whined anxiously.

Ford pushed himself up from the floor. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Did I hurt you?"

"Nah," Mabel said, grabbing Ford's arm to help him up as Dipper and Wendy got out of their sleeping bags. "Your knees OK?"

"Yes, yes! Fine! Mason! Open the weapons case. You know the combination. Fiddleford's in trouble. Hurry, there's not a moment to lose!"

The young people had to pull on their shoes—boots, in Wendy's case. Dipper dashed to the strongroom, opened that, unlocked the weapons safe with a complex passcode, and then yelled, "What do you want, Grunkle—oh!"

Ford reached past him and grabbed three quantum destabilizer pistols. "For you and Wendy!" he yelled, handing two of them to his nephew.

Behind him, Mabel complained, "What am I, chopped liver?"

Tripper whined appealingly as he licked his chops.

"It's a _saying,_ Tripper!" Mabel snapped. "Come on, Grunkle Ford, I want a weapon too!"

"You have your grappling hook," Dipper told her. He saw another item in the weapons safe and grabbed it. "Grunkle Ford, OK for Mabel to carry a magnet gun?"

"Fine! Let's go!" Ford's long coat had a built-in holster, and he thrust the destabilizer into it. "Dipper, you drive!"

"Aw, man," Mabel complained. "I'm missing out all around! You stay, Tripper! Defend this room!"

"Rrrufff!" Tripper responded before all the humans ran out and toward the elevator.

Tripper went to the sleeping bag in front of the lab door, turned around three times, and settled in to be a guard dog.

* * *

"Faster!" Ford said as Dipper pulled the Land Runner out of the driveway.

"Should've let me drive!" Mabel complained. She and Wendy were in the back seat, Dipper at the wheel, and Ford riding shotgun.

Dipper stamped on the accelerator, and the Land Runner leaped forward. "What are we facing?" he yelled at his grunkle.

"Don't know! Fiddleford was reporting on the DNA test—the bones shared none with what he extracted from the water bottle, but they showed a relationship to a Punt relative."

"Meaning the dead kid was probably the real Burnwald Punt," Wendy said. "And the guy now is the kid from—what was that weird family's name?"

"Chambron," Dipper said. "Run the light?"

Wendy craned forward and looked to the right. "Coast is clear this way."

"Woohoo!" Mabel said as they didn't even slow for the stoplight. "Hey, Wendy, you're married to a lawbreaker!"

"Always loved me a bad boy," Wendy said.

Dipper reached the long drive that led up the hill to Hootenanny Hall—McGucket had renamed the Northwest mansion—and yelled, "Brace!"

Because a limousine, headlights blinding, careened toward them, horn blaring and tires screeching.

"That's hi—" Mabel yelled.

Dipper's evasion wasn't as successful as Mabel's had been. The Land Runner jounced over the curb of the driveway, tilted sickeningly, and rolled, coming to rest on its tires.

Car accidents are strange. Time slows down. Dipper instantly remembered the moment when Wendy, then just fifteen, leaped heir hijacked tricked-out police cruiser over a gorge to escape the Discount Auto Warriors—they'd flipped, too, with the world jerking crazily. This was like that. Somehow, Dipper managed to kill the engine—

Sounds of small things falling, smell of fresh grass, cool night air—

"Everybody OK?" Dipper asked, blinking. The airbags had gone off. For a strange moment he wondered why his lap was full of diamonds before he realized the windshield had shattered into tiny fragments that glittered in the moonlight. The rearview mirror dangled from wires.

Ford was already out of the car, helping Mabel unfasten her seatbelt, but Wendy got out under her own power and ran to jerk open the driver's door and help Dipper, who was so dazed he couldn't for a moment remember how to release the belt latch.

"Save the dashcam video, Dip!" Wendy said.

When he blinked and asked, "Huh?" she leaned in and punched the SAVE button herself. Then she released he belt catch. "There you go. I think the car's totaled, man."

Mabel yelled, "Hey, Grunkle Ford! Wait for me!" and ran up the hill to the driveway.

"What happened to the Roylls?" Dipper asked, standing up with one hand on the car.

"Long gone. Wait, Dipper, you're bleeding!"

"Huh?"

Wendy tore a strip of flannel off her shirt tail and wiped his cheek, then pressed the cloth against his forehead, at the hairline on the right side. "Hold this in place. Don't think it's bad, but scalp wounds bleed a lot. You OK?"

"Come on," Dipper said. "They may need help!"

Wendy grabbed his free hand and they more or less ran uphill to the main gate and then to the house. Ford was practically dancing from foot to foot in front of the front door. "Come on, come on," he said impatiently.

The inside lock clacked, and Fiddleford opened the door. "Wait a sec," he said hastily. Over his shoulder, he yelled, "Stand down, it's friends!"

Behind him a Queen Anne chair, bristling with gun barrels, clacked and rattled as it folded the weaponry back into the arms, framework, and seat. "Standing down, sir."

"Dipper's hurt!" Wendy said as they came straggling up.

Fiddleford gave them a sharp look. "Oh, my nanny goats! Come on in, come on in, and let's see to him!"

Despite Dipper's insistence that he was all right, really, Ford dragged him to a bathroom, cleaned his face, and said, "A small cut, maybe a glass cut. Not bad enough to be sewn up. I'll close it with some butterfly closures."

For many months after they returned from the Arctic, Ford and Stan had lived in one wing of the mansion as the McGuckets' guest, and he knew where everything was. He snipped strips of adhesive tape, applied them in X shapes, and then put a Band-Aid over the mended cut. "Don't move yet," he said. He held up a finger and started to move it from side to side. "Follow this, just with your eyes. Mm-hmm. Now look into my eyes. One second." Ford reached to his pocket protector and brought out a penlight. He turned off the room lights and turned on the flashlight. "Just look straight at me."

The light shone into first Dipper's left, then his right eye. Ford switched the room lights back on. "I don't see any sign of concussion. Any double vision? Blurriness? Dizziness? Nausea?"

"No, just achy," he said. "Come on, let's see what happened!"

They found Fiddleford, Wendy, and Mabel in Fiddleford's lab, toward the back of the huge house. Fiddleford was saying, ". . . so this fat feller was a-poundin' on the door like a bobcat tryin' to get out of a steamer trunk. I seen him on the camera feed—hey, Dipper! You gonna be all right?"

Dipper grinned. "I hope so. Grunkle Ford says nothing's broken. Except my car."

Fiddleford shook his head. "Aw, I'm sorry about that, son. Wendy was a-tellin' us that it's a goner."

"We have insurance," Wendy said. "And the dashcam will show that Dipper had to dodge that Roylls-Rolse. We ought to take photos of the wreck and the driveway and all, too."

"We'll get 'er done," Fiddleford said. "Ford, I was jest explainin' how that bungerbutt come tear-assin' up th' drive in that there car an' jumped out an' like to've beat the door down. I'm lucky Mayellen, Tate, an' our daughter-in-law are off in California, visitin' Mayellen's aunt. They'd've been here, I think I woulda let Chair Man Miaow blast that fool."

Mabel turned toward the chair, which was actually one of Fiddleford's bots. "Hey, Chair, you think you could chase him down—"

"Reckon not," the chair said. "Not 'till my maker hambones the code!"

"Shoot," Mabel said.

"Sorry, Miss," the chair said in a Queen Anne sort of voice, "the same condition applies."

"I opened the door a smidge," Fiddleford said, as if the interruption had not occurred. "Kept 'er on the chain. That Punt feller, he tried his bestest to rip 'er open, but that chain'll hold nigh two ton of stress. Well, sir, he was mad enough to spit nails. He kept gabbling and sprayin' spit and I couldn't hardly make out what he was sayin'. Finally I got him to turn down the volume and the speed, and understood that he was hollerin' that I had something of his'n and I better fork it over or else."

"What did you do?" Ford asked anxiously.

"I asked him did he mean the bottle that had water in it. Tole him that I collected plastics fer recycling, and I prob'ly still had it iffen I could find it. He wanted to come in, but Chair Man Miaow come up so's he could see, and I think the six .38-caliber machine guns give him pause. Or maybe it was the twin shotgun barrels, though they's jest .410s. One o' these days I gotta make me an armchair robotamajig—"

"Fiddleford," Ford said gently, "did you give him the bottle?"

"Huh? Well, I come here to th' lab and got it an' two other bottles. I put a few dribs of water in the other two and took 'em all to him. 'One o' these,' I says, 'is probably yores. Take 'em all.' You know what he done?"

"What?" asked Dipper, Wendy, and Mabel in harmony.

"Reached in an' grabbed his'n. He knowed which it was, someways. Then he clomb back in that there car, hollered at his driver, an' jest about that time you started up the driveway. I reckon the limo run you plumb off the pavement. I'm sorry about yore car—"

"Wait a second," Ford said, rubbing his eyes. "You gave the sample back to—"

"Well, I'd done done all the analyses," Fiddleford said. "Plus, I saved about ten milliliters in a test tube. Did what I found help?"

"I think so," Ford said.

"You guys," Wendy interrupted, "don't you think the important question is how Punt even knew you had the bottle?"

"He's so stingy he won't even give away his spit!" Mabel said.

"There's something unnatural about it," Ford said. "As if he has a sixth sense about when he's in danger of exposure. Are you all right, Dipper?"

Dipper realized he had been swaying, partly from anxiety, partly from reaction. "Huh? Yeah, I'm fine. Little headache."

"Maybe we should take you to the clinic," Wendy said. "Let the night nurse look at you."

He managed a smile for her. "Really, I'm OK."

Wendy rubbed his shoulder. "Well . . . you don't have to be brave for me, man. But if you really feel all right, let's go out and get some pictures of the driveway and what's left of your car. We ought to download the dashcam footage, too, both front and rear views."

"I'm sorry, Dip," Mabel said. "I know how bad losing a car hurts. I still miss Helen Wheels."

"Don't worry about that," Dipper told her. "I'm just glad none of us got seriously hurt."

Fiddleford lent them a rack of bar lights—powered by one of his patented batteries—and they went out. Wendy used her phone to take dozens of photos, starting with the tire marks on the driveway, which showed that Dipper had desperately braked and swerved, but gave no evidence that the limo had done anything to avoid a smashup.

Next they photographed the grassy hillside, great chunks and divots ripped out as the car left the pavement and then rolled. Last came the Land Runner itself, the passenger-side fender crumpled, that wing mirror completely broken off, the doors deeply dented, the roof partly caved in, windshield broken out. The interior was a mess, airbags drooping, detritus everywhere, glass, grass, and dirt. Wendy retrieved the SD card from the dashcam.

Only then did they call the police. Fortunately, Blubs and Durland rarely worked the night shift, and the cop who showed up, Meeks, took a look and said, "It's private property, so unless you want to press civil charges—"

They really didn't. But Meeks took his own photos and said he'd write up a report that they could pick up in a couple of days.

Wendy called and left a recorded message for Steve at the garage to come and tow the Land Runner in. "Pretty sure it's totaled," she said, "but we'll take a look."

By that time—past midnight now—Ford had called Stanley, who grumbled a little but then said, "Yeah, I'll give you guys a ride."

Fiddleford refused to return to the Shack with them. "I reckon I'm as safe here as anywhere," he told them. "Minute you leave, I'm switchin' on the high-security systems. You all just take good care, you hear?"

And ten minutes after that, they heard the doorbell. It was Stan, disheveled and sleepy-eyed. "I'd give a lot to get just one full night's sleep in this fershlugginer town," he muttered. "Come on, and I'll run you back up to the Shack. Dipper, you OK?"

"Yeah, I'll do," Dipper said, touching his bandage.

"Sorry about your car there, champ," Stan said. "Hey, if you need a loan to get a replacement—"

Wendy hugged him. "You big old softy," she teased. "Nah, we're OK. We got insurance, and I think we might be able to prove that Punt ran us off the driveway."

"Throw the book at him!" Stan said. "Come on, Poindexter, I want to get back to bed before daylight."

They started toward the Stanleymobile, all except Ford, who was lingering to give Fiddleford some last-minute advice. The other three ran into Stan when he stopped suddenly. "What the hey, Grunkle Stan?" asked Mabel.

"Look, Stan said, pointing.

"Oh, man!" Wendy said.

Dipper felt a chill. Perched on the convertible roof of the El Diablo—not an easy task for anything with zygodactyl feet—stood a jet-black owl, nearly two feet tall, staring at them with big green eyes.

"We saw that before," Dipper whispered.

The owl did a curious little dance-in-place, lowering its head and then raising it again.

"It's got something in its mouth," Mabel said. "A mouse or something."

Almost ceremonially, the owl bent forward and put what it was holding on the roof of the convertible, and then it spread its wings and was gone.

"Am I seein' things?" Stan asked. "Did it fly away or did it turn invisible?"

"What?" asked Ford, finally catching up.

"This great big black owl!" Stan said. "It left a dead mouse on my car!"

"Dudes," Wendy said, "that isn't a mouse."

It was stirring in the breeze, but she got there before it blew off and picked it up between thumb and forefinger.

"What is it?" Dipper asked.

She held it up as Ford shined a flashlight on it.

It was a small tuft of hair, blondish-grayish, about an inch long. It must have been ripped out of someone's head. Tiny beads of blood shone red at the roots.

"That's Punt's hair," Mabel said. "I recognized his foul stench the moment you picked it up!"

Ford had fished a specimen envelope out of one of his coat pockets—he was almost always a walking lab—and held it out. "Put in in here, carefully." Then he sealed the flap and said, "I'm taking this back inside to Fiddleford. I think the bird just gave us another DNA source. And I'll have two Agency guards here within half an hour to give Fiddleford extra protection."

While they waited for him, Stan said, "Huh. I hope it hurt when the owl ripped that hair out."

"I hope," Mabel said darkly, "the owl ate him."

* * *


	19. Bosses

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**19-Bosses**

_After midnight, in a corridor outside a hotel room in a hotel outside the Valley:_

Burnwald Punt leaned over. "Does it show?"

"Not . . . not very much, sir," said Mick Mitchell. He was not privileged to stay on the same floor—the penthouse—as his employer, and he was anxious to go down to the second floor to his own budget-rate room.

"What the hell's that mean, Mackel?" Punt snapped, straightening up into a pudgy tower of irritation. "It does or it doesn't! Is it noticeable?"

"I can see it, sir, but I know just where to look. If you carefully brush, it won't be visible. Er—there is a little blood showing, sir. Not much."

"Goddam bat!" yelled Punt so loudly that Mitchell winced. "This goddam state is the worst one in the country. Total disaster! Good thing I won't have to live here once I win on Tuesday. Make a reservation for me at the Gold Towers Resort in Vegas, starting, let's see, next Friday. My usual suite."

Mitchell fidgeted uneasily. "Well, sir—there is the matter of the bill. The resort did tell you that until you pay the past-due—"

"I'm Burnwald Punt, dammit!" Punt shouted. "You tell them that if they give me any static, my lawyers will be there tomorrow!"

"T-tomorrow's Sunday, sir."

"To hell with Sunday. All right, Monday, then. What is it?"

Mitchell had been shifting from foot to foot like a kindergartener who needed to pee but was afraid of attracting the teacher's attention. "Um—the um, wound on your head, sir. You might want to have a doctor look at it. You might need a tetanus shot, or—well, sir, you know, bats, rabies . . .."

"The damn thing didn't bite me, Murrel! It just snatched at my hair and flew right off! Anyway, I hate doctors. I'll go shower and wash my hair and put some antibiotic on the spot. Stop bothering me and go to your room!"

"Yes, sir," Mitchell told the closing door. He walked back to the bank of elevators, worrying. The bat had not attacked him—he hadn't seen it at all—but it worried him anyway. He thought back to the attack, or whatever it was.

He and Punt had stepped out of the limo in front of the hotel, and Mitchell had just handed the keys to the parking valet, when he heard his boss swear.

He swung around quickly. Punt was in a half-crouch, one hand clapped to his head near the crown. "Did you see that?" he bellowed, red-faced.

"What, sir?"

"A goddam bat big as a coffee table! It swooped down and tried to scalp me!"

"No, sir, I didn't see anything—perhaps the security camera." He had leaned down to pick up the plastic water bottle that Punt had dropped, but Punt stepped painfully on his hand. "That's mine! I'll get it." When Mitchell pulled his hand back, Punt had grunted, leaned over, and fumbled with the bottle for a minute before retrieving it.

 _He's crazy,_ Mitchell thought, and not for the first time since he'd started working for Punt. His boss knew no more about impulse control than how to operate a warp drive.

The elevator took Mitchell down to his room, and before he slipped his key card into the lock slot, he heard the phone ringing. Sighing, he sat on the bed and answered it. "Room 222," he said. "This is—"

His employer's voice screamed at him so loudly that Mitchell held the phone a foot away from his ear. "This goddam hotel! Room service closes at midnight! Damn it! Didn't we pass a restaurant just before we got here?"

"Yes, sir, Burgers and Brews."

"It looked open—"

"Yes, sir, it stays open twenty-four hours a day."

"All right, get there, get me the biggest burger they have—if they only have the quarter-pound ones, get me two—medium well, fries, and—what kind of beer do they have here?"

"I presume the national brands, sir. Most places also have a local one called Rimrock, which is a lager—"

"That'll have to do. Get me two bottles. Not cans, bottles. And extra ketchup. And get here fast, I didn't finish my dinner!"

"Yes, sir."

Mitchell went to the concierge desk and requested the car. Waiting out front, he checked his wallet: some twenties, three tens, four fives. He pulled out a ten. The valet came around and handed him the keys and Mitchell gave him the tip.

"That's a ritzy car," the young valet said, holding the door for him.

Mitchell smiled sadly. "It's not mine, son. But I'll tip you again if you can be here in ten minutes."

"Heck, I'll wait," the young man said. "Nice night." He closed the door and Mitchell started the car.

The burger place was within sight of the hotel, and Mitchell drove through, placed the order for a Whamdinger ("Half a pound of prime grass-fed beef!") plus large fires and two sixteen-ounce bottles of Rimrock beer. He stopped at the pick-up window, the girl took a twenty, everyone inside came to peer out at the limousine, then he got his change, the hot, greasy paper bag, and two frosty bottles.

The same kid leaped up when he got back to the hotel. As Mitchell handed him another ten-dollar bill and the keys, the boy said jokingly, "Midnight snack, huh?"

"For my boss," Mitchell said.

The valet rolled his eyes. "Hope he pays you good!"

Smiling, Mitchell nodded and thought silently, _I hope he pays me at all._

Food in hand, he hurried into the hotel, knowing that although the whole thing had taken no more than twelve minutes at the outside, his boss was going to scream at him.

* * *

Agent Hazard was back on station, perched on the flat roof of the attic window. Stan had just dropped off Ford, Wendy, Dipper, and Mabel.

She didn't know where they had gone, but Ford had put her on high alert. She didn't mind. Hazard had developed a talent for snatching a little sleep here, a little there, and she found new situations challenging but exciting. Anyhow, the night was nice, not too cool, clear sky, beautiful moon shining down from its backdrop of night and stars.

When she suddenly spun around, it was difficult to tell which was more startled, her or the silent owl.

"Well," Hazard said, just above a whisper. "Hello there."

The owl made a soft owl sound.

"You're not a regular owl, are you?"

The owl twisted its head so it looked at her from a canted angle in a way that seemed impertinent in a non-threatening way, as if it were answering a question with a question: _You're not a regular human, are you?_

"Mind if I check you out?" From her cross-legged sitting position, Hazard stood smoothly up and walked right up the slope, skirting the chimney, as if she were strolling across a level lawn. The owl watched her.

She sat on the roof peak within arm's length of the bird. It was big, a black owl shape cut out of the night, only the huge green-irised eyes showing it to be a living creature. "I'm guessing we have the same job," Hazard said. "Guarding the Pines family."

The bird didn't ruffle a feather, but slowly blinked those great eyes.

Cautiously, Hazard reached out a hand. "Do you mind?"

The owl didn't seem to mind or not mind. Hazard very, very slowly extended her hand. When it was only inches away from skritching the owl's head, it opened its beak as if to say, "Uh-uh."

"I apologize." Hazard slowly pulled her hand back and the owl closed its beak and stared at her placidly.

Again the owl gave its slow blink. Hazard could imagine it was saying, "That's better."

"Dr. Pines sent me," she said. "Who's your boss?"

The owl tilted back its head and gazed upward.

Instinctively, Hazard looked up too. For a moment, a shooting star sketched its passage across the sky, the trail it left behind becoming sinuous and momentarily looking like—a Chinese dragon? A salamander?

When Hazard looked away from the sky, the owl was gone.

And without her knowing how it had even got there, in her right hand between thumb and finger she held an elegant jet-black feather.

* * *

Hazard still sat in the same place when, as the sky paled in the east with the coming Sunday morning, an Agency car pulled into the lot. She watched as Skyler got out—young agent, good man, first-rate in weapons, not a bad hand-to-hand fighter, and surprised by nothing—and opened the door for Dr. McGucket. "Thank you, young feller," McGucket said with hardly a trace of his hillbilly accent, which tended to come and go. "Come inside?"

"No, sir," Skyler said. "Thank you. I'll sit on the porch over there so I can keep watch on the car. You take your time."

Skyler waited until McGucket had gone in—the old man had his own set of keys—and then stepped back, tilting his head. He looked up at the roof and saluted. "How's it been, Commander Hazar?"

"Smooth, Mr. Skyler," she said. "Your end?"

"No trouble, Boss."

Without further words, he vanished as he went to the back porch, where a comfortable loveseat sagged and squeaked. Hazard stood and briefly scanned the surrounding trees and the lightening sky.

No sign of an owl.

But then, when she sat again, there was no sign of Agent Hazard, either.

* * *

Wendy woke up the instant McGucket opened the door. She was already on her feet, axe drawn, when he switched on the light. "Oh, banjo polish!" he said. "Sorry. I didn't go for to wake you all up!"

Wendy put away her axe. "Little jumpy," she said. "Sorry, man."

"It's OK, Dr. McGucket," Mabel said, squirming to look for her shoes. "I gotta take a potty break, and Tripper probably is ready for breakfast."

The dog woofed politely. McGucket stood aside to let them out. "He in there?" he asked, nodding toward the door that led to the sealed lab.

Dipper was just tying his shoes. "Yeah. I hope he got some sleep."

"How you feeling this morning?"

"Aches," Dipper admitted. "Seat-belt bruise, little bit of a headache. No black eyes or anything. Wendy?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she said. "Dr. McGucket, they'll probably come with a tow truck for the car this morning."

"That'll be fine," McGucket said, stepping over Mabel's sleeping bag and hesitating at the inner door. "I don't hardly like to knock—"

Dipper used the door code and silently opened the inner lab, the shielded one. McGucket whispered, "He's asleep. I'll try not to wake him up."

Dipper saw that Grunkle Ford was slumped in the one armchair, a pillow under his cheek, his feet propped on one of the straight chairs. McGucket tip-toed in and left a folder of printouts on the lab table. When he came out and softly closed the door, he said, "Reckon I'll hang around a little while till I'm sure he's got them. Everything quiet?"

"Oh, yeah, we got some sleep ourselves," Wendy said. "What time is it? Well, five o'clock isn't my favorite for a Sunday morning, but we might as well make a start of it. Want to come up and help me make some breakfast, Dip?"

"Sounds good." Wendy went out and, hesitating, Dipper asked, "Professor McGucket, do you want to come with us, or—"

"Thanks, but I'll pull up a chair and set out in the hall beside the door," he said. "Jest till Ford wakes up. Oh, let me tell you what I found—the hair was from the same person that drunk out of the water bottle. Burnwald Punt, only that can't be his right name. DNA's all wrong, and I found out his blood type is O-negative, real rare type. Ford told me a black owl left that hair sample, that right?"

"Yeah," Dipper said.

"Huh," McGucket said. "Where I was born, there was a good many Cherokee livin' back in the hills. They were the ones, their ancestors escaped from bein' rounded up an' herded off like cattle along the Trail of Tears. You ever learn about that in school?"

"Andrew Jackson," Dipper said. "Yes, I learned about it."

"There was an old woman, everybody called her Bonnie," McGucket said in a soft, slow voice, as if his mind were visiting the past. "Don't know what her right name, her Cherokee name, was. When I was jest a little shaver, my grandpappy took me to see her. I had some sickness, don't remember what, and Miss Bonnie brewed old-time remedies. Grandpappy left me with her all day once, and she made some kinda bad-tastin' tea. But I drunk it, and by and by I got real woozy. She laid me on her bed—it rustled, her mattress was stuffed with dry corn shucks, you could smell them like a memory of fall. Anyhow, she set there in a rockin' chair beside me for some hours, a-talking to me. 'You can't go to sleep,' she kept tellin' me. 'I heard Tsgili moanin' last night. You'll get well if you keep awake a while.'"

" _What_ did she hear?" Dipper asked.

"Tsgili." McGucket spelled it. "Oh, she told me all about Tsgili. It's the great horned owl. The Cherokee had a heap of beliefs about them. Miss Bonnie, she told me, 'Ever you see a black great-horned owl, you treat it with respect. That's a—'" McGucket broke off. "I disremember her words, but they meant something like _witch_ or _sorceress_ or maybe _wise woman_. Not evil, anyways, but the spirit of a dead conjure woman that held great magic powers. Hard to say it right in English. Anyhow, you meet such an owl, you don't ever offer any harm. Sometimes one comes to protect people what needs special protection. Only their enemies need to be a-scared. So you always speak respectful to a black owl. And them that don't act respectful—let me see, Miss Bonnie sung me a song."

After a few seconds, McGucket began to croon a sort of chant. In his cracked voice, it gave Dipper the feeling that the words barely managed to contain something powerful, something dangerous:

"My name is Night.

I am the black owl

Dark is my flight

As I hunt for your soul.

Your name is Despair.

When you hear the howl,

Death comes from air,

The black owl of Night

Comes for your soul."

They heard noises from inside the lab, and McGucket said, "He's awake. You run on up to help with breakfast. I'll see if the boss needs any help, and I'll try my best to get him to come up and eat."

"Thanks, man," Dipper said.

He walked up the steps with the chant running in his mind, keeping time with his footfalls.

* * *


	20. Secrets and Shadows

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**20-Secrets and Shadows**

Burnwald Punt ate his Whamburger, doused with ketchup, and guzzled down a quart of beer. Rimrock wasn't bad. It wasn't great, but it wasn't bad. Maybe he could acquire the brand—it was local, it should go for peanuts, if he could persuade some Mongolian or Latvian bank that had never dealt with him to put up the dough. Punt's Rimrock Beer, make it a gold label. Slap his face on it, yeah . . ..

He went to bed sometime after one in the morning. He'd gulped down a couple of sleeping pills and soon enough passed into REM sleep, the realm of dreams. His dreams—which he never remembered, but which influenced him none the less—were sinister.

The thing is, Burnwald Punt did not remember his childhood at all. The wall of total exclusion started around the year he was six years old. Past that, nothing. It was like looking down a hall that dead-ended in a door leading to a hidden room that he had visited so long ago that he had no memory of what lay inside, only that something did. Trying to recall what happened when he was four or five was like remembering he had once peeked into that room—but the room's contents and furnishings were lost to him.

He did not even remember that he wasn't a member of the Punt family. He had been told that he'd been adopted at the age of three. He'd learned that as a teenager, fifteen or sixteen, but it didn't much register. "Who were my parents?" he'd asked.

His father had smoothly told him, "They're both dead."

OK, he didn't worry about the dead. In fact not until he was thirty-three and his own father had dropped dead of a heart attack at the age of fifty-nine, did Burnwald spare another thought for his real family. After the funeral, he'd hounded his mother until finally, angry, she had snapped, "Oh, for God's sake, Burnwald, their name was Chambron!"

"French?" he had yelled, his face flaming with anger. "I'm a friggin' Frenchman?"

"They were American," she'd said wearily. "Country people."

Worse and worse. Burnwald was so furious at his mother for telling him he came from a family of hicks—French hicks, and there were no worse kinds—that from then on, he cut her off completely. Wouldn't see her, talk to her on the phone, acknowledge her existence. When she died in a suspicious automobile accident when he was thirty-seven, he sent a card but declined to pay for the funeral expenses. The investigators, who were more than half persuaded that the woman had deliberately driven off a bridge, were persuaded to write the whole thing off as an unavoidable accident.

That had cost Burnwald several thousand dollars, which rankled him. But public-relations-wise, it was better to mourn a mother dead from an accident than to be thought the son of a batty old woman who'd committed suicide.

When he was forty, he hired private detectives to look into the Chambron family in Oregon—he did not then even know the name of the town. After four months of investigation, he got a report that there had been a Chambron family of three, mother, father, and infant son, in Gravity Falls, Oregon, in 1949, according to the 1950 census. And he'd discovered for the first time that his mother and dad had lived there at the same time, and so did he, as a two-year-old. Then how in the hell was he a member of the Chambron family? He even got photos of the old Punt house, which he privately thought of as an obvious dump.

More research by different detectives turned up information about the Chambron family: Abramelin Chambron, Cordelia Chambron, and Hermes Nicolas Chambron, husband, wife, and son. According to county records, the son was born at thirteen minutes past midnight on January 4, 1947—which gave Burnwald pause. His own birth certificate said he had been born at the same minute, not in Gravity Falls, but in a hospital in a place called Mossy Run, Oregon.

And worse, thirteen years later, to the day, Abramelin and Cordelia Chambron were found dead in a cemetery near New Hope in upper New York State, only a few miles from the Punt home in Onaturell. It was weird. It had not been all that cold for upstate New York—not even freezing. But the two bodies were found on either side of a small campfire beside a mausoleum with their family name on it. There were no obvious signs of violence or illness.

The news report said discreetly, "The bodies of a lightly-clad man and woman were discovered around 9 AM on Monday morning. Personal effects found nearby identified them as Abramelin and Cordelia Chambron, 46 and 42, tourists from Arizona who were evidently there to visit the tomb of their ancestors."

"Lightly clad" was an understatement, but "naked" was the kind of word that would raise eyebrows.

No one had been buried in the Chambron tomb since shortly after the Civil War. Eleven former Chambrons were interred in the marble mausoleum, beginning with Ephraim, 1775-1827, and ending with Sephora, 1851-1867. The marble building held the eleven coffins and had room for two more.

The unusual thing was that in smudgy, sooty black on the side of the mausoleum toward the campfire were two life-sized figures, roughly a man and roughly a woman, looking not quite as if they had been sketched there—more as if they'd been stamped or chemically applied.

No information could be found on the two dead Chambrons, and eventually the cemetery consented for them to be buried in the mausoleum. Cheap coffins did well enough, and in a perfunctory nondenominational service, the bodies were laid to rest with, presumably, Chambron ancestors.

Since then, the tomb had become rather notorious. The Ghost Harassers had even filmed a segment there in the show's first season.

The dark silhouettes could not be cleaned off. They even tried sandblasting.

What made it notorious was that the black, indelible silhouettes of a naked man and woman . . . danced.

Slowly, a fraction of an inch a year, but they moved. A student film shot over six months in 1993, four frames of film a day, 365 days a year, when projected at normal speed, yielded just over a minute of flickering images.

In that minute, the two human silhouettes did a stately dance, circling each other.

"The Tomb of the Dancing Devils" became famous in paranormal lore.

Burnwald Punt knew little of this. It did not interest him. Indeed, he did not learn anything about the Chambron son for many years. When his mother had died, she left him a heavy manila envelope, which he tossed into a desk drawer. He didn't even bother to open it until 2006, when he was depressed because the producers of the TV show that had made him a star told him they were closing production.

He was rich, dammit. He couldn't live without being a millionaire, without everyone believing he was this infallible business genius. Angry and gloomy, he started to clean out the desk so the movers could take it from the studio set back to his real, not nearly as impressive, office.

He ripped it open and read his mother's farewell message:

* * *

_Now that your father has died, you need to know this. You were born in Roadkill County, Oregon. Your father and mother were sorcerers. Magic is real. They told us that their son—you—could become a great man, but he must be raised not by them but by another family. Us._

_We had our own child, Burnwald. He was sickly and doctors told us he had no hope of living to be an adult. We made a deal with the two magicians. We would allow them to sacrifice our child and would take their son in exchange, to raise as our own._

_Your heritage gives you power. Your real parents were to impart that to you on your thirteenth birthday. They failed to appear on that day. I don't know what happened to them. Years later I heard they had died. Their magic is dangerous. Be warned._

_I don't want to tell you anything about your actual parents. Don't pry into your past._

_I give you this warning: Do not try to find the body of our real child. It is buried behind the house we lived in then. Other things are buried, too._

_There, I have planted the temptation. It is up to you to resist. Do not seek out what is buried. That will be the death of you._

_My advice is to insure that no one ever digs there. Bury the whole valley if you can. Cover it with stone and earth, with water. What is buried there must never come to light._

_Believe this. I know who you are and what you are. I loved you when you were a child. I do not love the man you have become, but you are my son, not by blood but by adoption. This is my best advice and my warning._

_For God's sake, believe it._

_No, that means nothing to you._

_For your sake, believe it._

* * *

Burnwald Punt knew little about most of this. He was vaguely aware that he had some power that he could not fully understand, much less control. If his real parents had survived their incantation (one word spoken with the wrong accent was the broken link), then at the age of thirteen his full power would have been awakened.

As it was, it just failed to manifest fully. Just barely.

But it did go forth at night, when he dreamed. It went forth as. . . .

. . . shadows.

* * *

_They flitted through the minds of sleepers in Gravity Falls, those not resistant or those unprotected, whispering of how successful Burnwald was, how good it would be to gain wealth, how ordinary and despicable the useless everyday things, the earth and trees of the Valley were, how they might be changed to limitless money._

_They turned the minds of as many of those sleepers as they could against Stanley Pines, so he had saved everyone six years ago, what has he done for us lately?_

_The shadows flickered and left behind little seeds of evil._

_And some fell on stony ground and perished. And some fell on sand and withered. And some fell on fertile soil . . ._

Susan Wentworth woke at three in the morning, startled with the sense that someone was in her bedroom. She turned on the bedside lamp and saw the shadow of something like a man—too thin, too warped, too grotesque, to be a real man—flow up the wall, then flow over it, to the open bedroom door, and then flow out into the dark hall.

She actually got up and turned on every light in the house, but the shadow-thing had gone.

When she went back to bed, for some reason she said aloud, "I'm gonna vote for Stanley Pines. I know him!"

About the same time, the night watchman in the Northwest Mudflap Plant, making his rounds, could have sworn he saw someone lurking in the fabrication room, where the big vats of neoprene pellets and the cooker sand the injectors and molds made the place a maze. Some dark shape moved over behind the tall vats.

He followed it, but like a will o' the wisp, it eluded him, always at the edge of his vision.

No detectors sensed it. After half an hour's futile search, he put it down to being tired and finished his rounds. As he sat down before the banks of video monitors, he scanned them. Nobody, nothing moving.

The thought flashed through his head: Burnwald Punt's a big TV star. Successful man like that's just what the Valley needs.

In a cozy log house some miles outside of town, Mr. David Sawyer woke hearing his fourteen-year-old daughter Belinda scream. He ran to her room, threw the door open, and asked, "What is it?"

She was sitting up in bed. "I don't know," she said. "I thought somebody was here." She had turned on the bedside lamp.

"Where?"

"There," she said, pointing at the wall opposite her window.

Her brother Rodney, eighteen now and heading off to college soon, God, where did the years go, came to the doorway. "What's the matter?"

"Daddy," she said, "come in and shut the door."

He and Rodney did, and she turned off the lamp.

The moon was bright enough to light up the window. "It was over on the wall," the girl said.

The pale, pale rectangle of moonlight on the wall showed a figure, a shadow.

"It's just the old Christmas tree, sis," said Rodney.

Oh, right, they'd always had live Christmas trees, and the fir from five years ago stood on that side of the house.

But Belinda said, "It moved. It was like a man. Or a ghost."

Which made David almost remember something that probably didn't even happen.

He heard himself say aloud, "I'll never vote against Stanley Pines. He saved our family."

In the end, David sent his daughter to sleep in his room, and he took her place.

He didn't see any shadows.

Or any ghosts.

But he had a troubled night's sleep.

* * *


	21. Almost Taste It

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**21-Almost Taste It**

Dipper was worried about both his Grunkles. Ford clearly was operating on the razor edge of exhaustion, noticeably slower in making up his mind about the best course of action. Stanley shrugged off the political threat of Punt outmaneuvering him. "Eh, the people of Gravity Falls are pretty level-headed," he said, against all available evidence. "They won't be persuaded by glitz and big words. I trust them."

Wendy and Dipper weren't so sure. They were themselves worn-out from too little sleep grabbed at odd times, but in Greasy's Diner they heard political squabbles going on. Some—Susan and Dan, notably—were strongly for Stanley, the good man who'd done so much for the town and the Valley.

Others were eating breakfast but chewing over the one-liners that Punt had been feeding them in his omnipresent ads: "MGFR," "Make Gravity Falls Rich," which most pronounced as _Magrafar_! Or "What the hell are metals for? Dig 'em up and sell the ore!" ("As if Gravity Falls had any substantial veins of gold," Dipper grumbled). "Chop down every useless tree! More real estate for you and me!" Stuff like that.

More concerning to Dipper were words he heard repeated by more than one of the boisterous crowd: "I had this dream last night that if we elect Pines we're in for—"

Variants on that, and too many to be merely coincidence. Dipper and Wendy didn't join in the debate, but sat at the table holding hands and exchanging thoughts:

— _I got you, man. Somehow Punt's working on their dreams in the Mindscape!_

_Just like Bill Cipher. You finished?_

Wendy had about half a stack of pancakes left, but she responded, — _I've kinda lost my appetite. Let's go and tell everybody._

Dipper left a generous tip, and the two of them headed for Wendy's Dart when her phone buzzed. "Steve at the garage," Wendy said. "You drive, I'll catch this."

Dipper got behind the steering wheel. He didn't need telepathy to follow the conversation, just from Wendy's side: "Hi, man. Yeah, avoiding a head-on collision. OK, ready to hear it. Uh-huh. That's bad. Oh, man, that too? Yeah, but let me ask him." To Dipper, she said, "Totaled, Big Dipper. Steve will offer you salvage for it. Won't be enough for another car, but—"

"Better than nothing," Dipper said. "Tell him I'm fine with that."

Wendy spoke into her phone: "He says go ahead. No, we trust you, just make a fair offer. Hah! I'm a married woman, you know! You shouldn't make that kind of suggestion. None taken, I'm kidding. Thanks, man. We'll catch you later in the week."

When she hung up, Dipper asked, "Was he trying to steal you away from me?"

"Yeah, to go to work for him!" Wendy said, laughing. "Says he doesn't have anybody there who can rebuild an engine as fast as me."

Dipper started the Dart, and when they were on their way, Wendy put a warm palm on the back of his neck — _It'll be OK. We can swing another car for you._

 _I'm not as upset as Mabel would be,_ Dipper told her. _As long as none of us is hurt, losing the Land Runner doesn't bug me all that much._ _I don't know, I don't personify stuff like cars as much as she does. She always names them—Black Beauty, Helen Wheels. I never feel like they're personalities._

— _I kinda do, but not really. Like, I call the Dodge the Green Machine, and it means a lot to me 'cause I put in so much time rebuilding it and getting it just the way I want it. But, yeah, I see what you mean. To Mabel, a car's a buddy. To me it's an accomplishment._

_I'm really worried about all those dreams people have been having._

Aloud, Wendy said, "I know, man. I know."

Back in the Shack, they found Stanley, Stanford, and Fiddleford sitting at the table. "Where's everybody else?" Dipper asked.

Stanley answered: "We persuaded Soos to take a couple days off. He and his family have already voted, so to get them out of the political foofarah, they're goin' to visit Soos's cousin an' his family until tomorrow evening. Teek and Mabel are off somewheres handing out campaign flyers. Meh, it might help, who knows."

"We just got back from Greasy's," Dipper said. "There's kind of a political argument going on there, and—well, here's something you should know." He briefly told them about the unusual number of people who were reporting dreams—dreams that somehow tied into how they meant to vote.

"Huh," Fiddleford said. "Ford, that-there might tie into what Tyler told you."

"What's that?" Wendy asked.

Ford took a sip of coffee. "Tyler Cutebiker phoned me this morning to tell me that he and a few other people had nightmares last night. Some of them dreamed of terrible things that would happen if Stanley became Mayor. Others woke up to see strange, shadowy shapes flitting in their bedrooms. That happened to Tyler, and it spooked him."

"Shadow People," Stan said. "Happens a lot in the Valley. Old-timers say it's the dead coming back to visit the living. Use to be a lot of that around Halloween—kids out trick or treating would see shadows of people passing along the walls of th' houses along their way with nobody for the shadows to come from."

"It's part of lore," Stanford said. "Probably results from sleep deprivation and heightened emotional states. I myself occasionally glimpse what I at first take to be mice on the floor, only to discover that they're just sort of blobs of darkness in my perception."

"The timing's right suspicious, you ask me," Fiddleford said. "Right before the election and all. But to manipulate dreams, don't you have to be in the Mindscape?"

"I believe so," Stanford said. "But that's not so easy to do—and whatever else he is, Punt is no interdimensional demon, just a human. His DNA proves that. Only Bill Cipher's up to actively invading other people's dreams."

"So far as you know," Stan said sourly.

"Grunkle Ford," Dipper said, "while you were away there was some research done on this. There's a book by Hollis that collects anecdotes of shadow-people visitations. And there's an old text on dream attacks, um, I'm forgetting the author right now, but the title's _Felix somnia et mala somnia._

Ford smiled encouragingly. "Quite correct. Paracelsus, _Somni veneficia_ : _Felix somnia et mala somnia._ I expect you read the 1933 translation by R. P. Carter, _Sorcerous Sleep: Fortunate and Evil Dreams._ "

Dipper nodded.

"Tell us about it," Stanley said.

"Not much to tell," Dipper said. "It's a short book that collects folklore about witches or warlocks who have the ability to send people good dreams or nightmares. Usually that's done out of malice—the magician wants to lull a victim into a sense of security with happy dreams, or to frighten one into a change of action with nightmares. The thing is, that people who aren't the targets can see these dreams approaching their victims, like shadows of misshapen people creeping along the wall."

An unexpected voice said dryly, "Funny thing."

Everybody jumped. Agent Hazard, unheard by any of them, had materialized in the doorway. She wasn't in her working clothes, but had donned tight jeans, a black tank top, and over that a dark blue flannel shirt, worn open like a jacket. "Didn't mean to startle you," she said. "Coffee?"

Wendy got up and poured her a cup. Hazard sat next to Dipper, on his left side. From the counter, Wendy asked, "Sugar? Cream?"

"One sugar, thanks."

Wendy brought the coffee over and handed it to Hazard before sitting on Dipper's right. "What was funny about the dream stuff?" Wendy asked.

"I think I saw one," Hazard said, the cup wrapped in her two hands. "Last night up on the roof. The owl visited me. It wanted me to look down, I think. At first, I thought I glimpsed something, a coyote or maybe even a wolf, prowling around the Shack. But I finally got a good look as it came around and out onto the parking lot and then on the grass. The parking lot lights made it nice and dark, though there was nothing to cast the shadow, just the shadow itself. It was a creeping man."

"Creeping?" Fiddleford asked. "Cat-footing, like?"

"Creeping," Hazard said, sipping the coffee. "As in flat on his belly like a lizard, legs splayed out to the sides, arms reaching long and the body crawling along on all fours. Like it was trying to find a way in but couldn't."

"There's a protective field around the place," Ford said.

"Well, it couldn't get in," Hazard said. "I watched it for half an hour, round and round. The longer I watched, the weirder it got. It turned, I don't know, elastic. The torso and limbs would reach way out and bend in impossible ways. It didn't seem to realize that I was watching. Finally it just stopped short, looked like it was crouching for maybe ten seconds, and then liquefied. I mean it just melted and streamed away toward town like a wisp of black fog in a strong breeze."

"Punt sent it," Dipper said.

Ford raised a hand. "We mustn't jump to conclusions."

"He mighta been lookin' fer that little old lock of hair," Fiddleford suggested. "He come in person for the bottle of water with some of his spit in it."

"Perhaps," Ford said. "But I'd be very surprised if anyone, or any entity, could be aware of the sample's presence in the shielded lab. Fiddleford, you did leave it there, correct?"

"Yep," Fiddleford said. "Have you figured any way to examine the hex jug you got locked in that electromofied bird cage?"

Ford shook his head. "It has a troubling spectral signature," he said. "I'd want to be sure the—wait, what did you call it?"

"Hex jug?" asked Fiddleford. "That's what the old folks used to call 'em back home. Or witch jug."

"Tell me about this," Ford said.

Fiddleford scratched his head. "Well, they was really kind of anti-witch jugs. Like earthenware jugs, and people would put things in them that would draw off any evil charm or curse and trap it in the jug. Always some iron nails—iron because it grounds magic. If you knew personally the witch you were protectin' against, you'd try to get something of theirn—lock of hair, drop of blood, maybe just a piece of some article of clothing they'd worn. A shoelace, even."

"How did it work?" Wendy asked.

"Nobody rightly knows," the old man said. "But there was one difference. The witch jugs they talked about back in the hills, well, they had to be unstoppered. Unsealed. So the curse or the hex or whatever would git in and then be made powerless by the iron and stuff, so's it couldn't get out. Then you'd stopper it or put a lid on it and bury it, jest like this'n was buried on the Chambron lot."

Ford said, "I don't think this case is quite like that, Fiddleford. I think that this vase, or vat, or whatever you call it, is no hex or witch jug—not something to trap evil sent, but something to contain it until time comes for its release. Piecing together our information, and accounting for everything—the evident fact that the Chambrons practiced or attempted to practice sorcery at the tomb of their ancestors, the notion that they willingly exchanged their own healthy son for the sickly Punt boy, that they meant for him to grow up believing himself to be a member of the Punt family—at least until his thirteenth birthday—well, I believe the sealed urn houses something terribly dangerous."

"What?" Dipper asked.

"Ah!" Ford said. "I don't know."

"Brilliant, Pointexter!" Stanley said.

Shaking his head, Ford said, "We're close, Stanley, I can feel it. We're not there, but we're so close I can almost . . .." he trailed off.

Stanley said, ""One way to find out. Crack it like a rotten egg."

Hazard nearly choked on her coffee. "Not a smart thing to do, Mr. Pines."

"Yeah, well, I'm the dumb one in the family," Stanley said. "Couldn't we open it while you guys cover it with the quantum things?"

"Only," Stanford said firmly, "as a last, most desperate resort."

* * *


	22. Neck and Neck

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**22-Neck and Neck**

By the census count, Gravity Falls and Roadkill County had a total population of 8,371, not counting Gnomes. Including them, the total came to 9,371, considering that the Gnomes had a deep-seated resistance to counting themselves, and the population of Gnomes always was said to be 1,000. That was most likely an undercount based on the number of Ferals who had come up from the tunnels over the past years, but a thousand was fine for the Gnomes.

The voting rolls said that of that number, some 5,885 people and Gnomes were eligible to vote in all local, state, and national elections. Sadly, voter turnout in Gravity Falls tended to fall right around 50%, so the normal number of ballots cast came to only 2500 or so, and the Gnome votes generally came to only 200, more or less, of that number.

In the Mayoral election of 2018, though, record numbers of Gnomes filled out and sent in their ballots—about 700, all told, and of them 698 were for Stanley Pines. One (uncounted) ballot voted for both, and a second write-in vote was for Shmebulock.

Theoretically, that big a boost should have meant an easy victory for Stanley, but on the Monday before the official election day, random poling found an almost evenly-divided human electorate, 52% for Burnwald Punt, 48% for Stanley, with a poling margin of plus or minus five per cent.

"You're losing, Grunkle Stan!" Mabel exclaimed at noon when the poll results came over the TV.

"Meh, what you gonna do?" Stanley asked. "It's those cockamamie shadow dreams people are havin' that's doing it. I don't have a shadow army to command, you know."

"You have us!" Mabel said loyally. "The vote count won't start until election day tomorrow! We have time to go harass undecided voters!"

"Canvas," Dipper said.

"Yeah, if they don't say they'll vote for Grunkle Stan, we'll make 'em hit the canvas!"

Ford had looked at the voting records. "It should be relatively easy to increase the turn-out," he said. "Under Valley law, anybody who is eighteen or older and who has resided in the Valley for more than twelve months out of the past five years, and who has paid taxes in any form or who has an income so low that it is untaxed, is eligible to vote."

"That should include all the Gnomes," Wendy said.

"Yeah, and what about all the backwoods people?" Mabel asked. "Like the loggers and the small-time miners and the small farmers and such? And is the Invisible Wizard eligible? The Gremloblin? What about those dinosaurs down in the caves?"

"The people, yes," Dipper said. "I don't think the others qualify because they're mostly legendary. The Gnomes do, because they're sort of people and they live here all year around and they do pay taxes."

"Didn't know when they had it good," grumbled Stanley, who had an aversion to taxes, though he did grudgingly pay them.

"Say," Fiddleford asked from the sidelines, "what's happenin' with old Punt?"

"The Gnomes say he moved into the Chambron house," Ford said. "They say he's been out walking the back yard with what I take to be a metal detector."

"Lookin' fer that-there witch jug, bet ya anything," Fiddleford said with a wise nod.

"Come on, come on," Mabel said. "What are we waiting for? Let's get out the vote!"

She and Teek teamed up, naturally, and Fiddleford volunteered to go along with Dipper—"I reckon I know about every kook who lives off'n the grid," he said. "And they know me!" Just for the occasion, he shed his shirt, donned his old, patched overalls, wrapped his feet in bandages, put on his battered scarecrow hat—and plastered a Band-Aid to his beard. "Now they'll talk to me!" he announced happily.

Amy Hazard and Wendy were the third team. As they set off, Amy, who was driving a company car, said, "Don't worry, Wendy. I'm not going to seduce you—if you don't want me to try."

Wendy smiled. "I'm flattered, but I'm very happily married. And for the record, you're really an attractive woman, and under other circumstances . . .."

Amy glanced at her with a knowing grin. "I thought you were a little bit that way."

"Yeah, a little bit—but I'm more man-and-wife way. Sorry."

Amy sighed. "Don't be. Good for you. I just wish I could find somebody permanent. Lucky Dipper!"

Softly, Wendy said, "Lucky me!"

To an extent, their routing out the country folk paid off. Some of them didn't even know there was an election on, though ballots had been mailed to everyone on the voting roll. However, a good many of the off-the-grid types checked their mail only semiannually. The ones who were surprised that the election was the next day said, "Sure, Stanley Pines is a good man," or words to that effect. More than a few, though, said, "Maybe I'll come and vote if I don't have anything better to do."

Ford got a little short with his brother. "Stanley, you should be out canvassing for votes, too! You say it's vital that you win the election, but you're just sitting around here while everyone else is busy trying to scare up votes for you!"

Stanley said, "I'm politicked out, Ford. If I lose, I have to find some other way of doing what has to be done, that's all. Right now I'm trusting to the people of Gravity Falls. And to my luck."

"Your luck," Ford reminded him, "only runs to cards and dice!"

"An election," Stanley said, "is kind of a game of chance."

* * *

To be fair, Burnwald Punt wasn't politicking, either. "It's got to be here somewhere!" he kept muttering. He'd made a grid of the back yard and had paced over it twice with the best metal detector that money could rent buzzing away. He had discovered a veritable trove—a 1913 penny, about a dozen pop-bottle tops, the old metal crimped kind, more than that number of pull-off tabs, a tin can so rusted that he couldn't tell what might have been in it (probably tuna or pineapple), actually from the edge of the woods and not technically on the property, a short, rusted strand of barbed wire, nails and screws aplenty, but nothing interesting.

Though was it even metal? He'd had vivid dreams of something there on the property, something waiting for him, something that should have been his decades before. Where, though? Maybe it wasn't even buried in the yard. It might be hidden in an attic cubbyhole or in the basement.

So, alone, he prowled through every room. This time he didn't use the metal detector—useless, too much wiring, too many nails in the walls. Rather, he used something he had read about in a cryptic diary his father had bequeathed to him. It was a spiral-bound five-by-eight lined notebook, the covers stained and the pages brittle and brown, and the handwriting sprawled in a spidery track, hard to read.

It wasn't an ordinary diary, not a _Thursday: Got up, ate three eggs, brushed my teeth, watched TV, had lunch, went to town and bought some socks, back home, dinner, bed_ kind of record (oddly enough, for a brief time in the nineties, a whole bunch of popular songs followed that pattern, not even bothering to rhyme). Rather, this one was more like a cookbook from hell, with cryptic entries like

* * *

_Evocation of the Forbidden Glimpse_

_Needed: True Mandrake, handful, grated; liver of spotted newt, minced; 20 gr dried pulverized hellebore; 1 owlet's eye, crushed_

_Rite: Under a 27-day moon, brew the ingredients in bronze cauldron, over fire of well-dried ash wood, stirring with a hazel stick until it has boiled for 10 min. Cool and drink in 6 swallows. Between, say the following chant:_

_1 Khamar az-thonatesh malem tomi bonum_

_2 Ghast to varelum, zhya zhya_

_3 Daemonis Familias, mickel speris mium_

_4 Vishar vititum rivelaret_

_5 Vishar vititum ostendae_

_6 Ita sit! Ita sit! Ita sit!_

_The Forbidden Glimpse will be given to you and will last for VI min. Your lifespan will be shortened by I year._

* * *

Not exactly _101 Yummy Treats You Can Make in Ten Minutes._

However, one of the recipes was "To Reveal That Which Is Hidden," and it wasn't so dire, aside from requiring half an ounce of the seeker's blood. Punt guesstimated. The blood was used with powdered dry clay to make it malleable again, and then to the accompaniment of another nonsensical chant, the clay was shaped into a small cone, the cone was molded around a human hair at least six inches long (his longest would barely do—plucked from the comb-over section), and then all one had to do was to grip the end of the hair and meander around. When the pendulum thus formed sensed anything magical related to the blood in the mixture, it would point to it. Punt decided to try it first in the house, then in the yard.

It sort of worked.

On the third floor, the pendulum first began to spin in a circle, then pointed stubbornly at a closet in the nursery room. In the closet it defied gravity and pulled straight up. Standing on a folding stepladder, Punt probed the ceiling and found one board that wasn't nailed down, just resting there. He pushed it aside and groped around, finding a tiny, dusty cloth bag.

This he retrieved, and then over next to one of those quarter-round windows where the light was better, he opened the bag—it was nearly rotten with age—and shook out two little pearls.

No, on second glance, they weren't pearls, but teeth. Baby teeth.

And with something of a disagreeable shock, and not knowing how he knew, Punt realized _These are mine_.

Still, they weren't what he was looking for, which was, well, he didn't know that, either. Also something of his, he sensed, though he could not visualize or recognize it yet. But he would. Something that somehow belonged to him—and not teeth, either, nothing exactly bodily—was hidden here in this house or in these grounds. It should have been his on his thirteenth birthday.

Obscurely, more as an instinct than first-hand knowledge, he realized _It can make me powerful or destroy me. If someone else finds it first—_

No, that wouldn't happen. He wouldn't let it happen.

Impatiently, Punt dropped the bag with the teeth into his pocket and held up the pendulum. It no longer pointed. Once anything was found, it no longer attracted the blood clay. That had been written in the book.

Still, something remained to be found. It had to. He knew it had been here. No one could have taken it.

He went down to the next floor and patiently impatient, he stalked each room of the house, inch by inch, minute by minute.

* * *

_Way back in the hills, on a five-acre subsistence farm, where the farmer interrupted his stove wood-chopping to greet a visitor he recollected from the past:_

"Howdy, neighbor! How you a-doin?"

"Why, Old Man McGucket! Ain't seen you in a dog's age, you rascal. How are you, old-timer?"

"Fine as frog's hair! Now, look-a-here, Mr. Sinter, away out here on yore farm, you might not've got the word that they's electin' a Mayor in town tomorry!"

"That a fact? Naw, me and Maw ain't been to town, must be a month. Is Tyler runnin' again?"

"Naw, he's fixin' to retire. But Stanley Pines is up fer th' job. You remember him? The Mystery Shack?"

"Yeah, sure do! He's the one that stopped all that craziness the time our cows growed fangs and like to've chomped us!"

"Now, I don't wanna take up yore time, and the young feller waitin' in the car yonder is itchy to be about this business, so I ain't gonna speechify. I got two mail-in ballots here. How 'bout you and the Missus vote fer Mr. Pines and seal 'em and sign the affy-davits proper and let me mail 'em fer ye?"

"Be proud to!"

* * *

In total, the canvassers persuaded about sixty people to vote for Stanley, roughly a thirty per cent return on their visits. The other seventy per cent had already voted or weren't interested in voting or even flat refused to because voting was against their religion or habits or something.

That evening, a tired Dipper and Wendy turned in early. "I'm not sure that was even worth the effort," Dipper said.

"Every little bit helps," Wendy said.

They got into bed and kissed. Dipper immediately asked, "So Amy Hazard hit on you?"

Wendy chuckled. "Darn old telepathy. A girl can't have any secrets! Yeah, in a mild way. And yes, it made me feel a little tiny bit tempted and imagining it was even kind of titillating."

"But you turned her down."

Whispering in his ear, Wendy said, "Yep. Turned her down flat. Because I got me _this_."

Dipper twitched in surprise. "Whoops! Hey, give me warning when you're going to grab something!"

Nearly purring, Wendy replied, "More fun to pounce. Besides—I can already tell that you like it. Mm, yeah, you like it a lot."

* * *


	23. To the Wire

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**23-To the Wire**

The town and county charter in and for the town of Gravity Falls, Roadkill County, Oregon, as amended by the Board of Commissioners, provides the electoral code. Since it originally was composed entirely by Sir Lord Quentin Trembley III, Esq. (the 8 ½ President of the USA and the true founder of the town), it still has some quirks.

For example, in addition to the Commissioners, the charter provides for a Secretary of Snacks, whose task is "to bring refreshing treats to each official Board meeting, which may include, but are not limited to, poached quail eggs, minced opossum with onions and thyme on toast, finger sandwiches but not on that bread with the little black seeds in, I hate those things, they stick in my teeth . . .."

These days the Commissioners just rotate the snackage duty among themselves, and the snacks tend more toward pigs-in-a-blanket, cheese and sausage balls, with the odd cake or pan of brownies a couple of times a year.

However, the charter is perfectly clear on elections. The old method of electing by popular vote plus the kiss of a bald eagle has been revised to a more straightforward popular vote by an electorate consisting of all qualified residents of the town and Valley, voting to be held on a Tuesday in July, method to be by mail-in ballot (reflecting the practice in Oregon generally) with the polls open for those who wish to cast a ballot in person from seven A.M. to seven P.M. on election day.

And, oh, yes, to ensure a prompt count, the ballots received by one minute after midnight on election day morning may be counted beginning at seven in the morning, though the results are not to be released before the polls close at seven in the evening.

That was an advantage in the race between Stanley Pines and Burnwald Punt because for the first time ever, Gnomes had turned out in large numbers to cast their votes. They were counted first on that Tuesday, which gave Stanley Pines a commanding lead with nearly 100% for him.

That lead began to vanish like snow on a spring day by nine A.M. as human votes came in, which favored Punt. Mabel had been appointed as Stanley's poll watcher, Michael "Mick" Mitchell as Punt's, and Preston Northwest as the impartial third observer.

Preston served to decide whether a given ballot was acceptable or not. Mabel objected to several Punt ballots because the voter had written _MGFR!_ on the inner envelopes, but Preston allowed these provided the ballots themselves had not been marked with graffiti. Mitchell, looking ashamed of himself, routinely objected to every vote for Stanley on the grounds that "Mr. Punt doesn't like him," but all of these withstood Preston's scrutiny.

By noon, Punt was ahead, 50% to roughly 49%, with the difference being mainly write-in votes for "Me," "Daniel Boobs," and "Shmebulock," among others. Mabel was sweating.

* * *

Burnwald Punt was swearing. Mitchell texted him clandestinely every so often to apprise him of the vote totals. At noon he texted back "STOP COUNTING, I WON," but Tyler and Preston would not allow that. Besides, a few procrastinators, a steady but thin stream, was still coming in to vote in person.

Sitting in the Chambron house, Punt held the pendulum over a table and muttered, "Show me, damn you! Show me where to look!"

The pendulum refused to budge.

"It's got to be here! Maybe not in the house, but somewhere in the damn Valley! Give me a clue! Point, dammit, point!"

The pendulum hung straight and motionless.

However, a curious thing happened: as he stared, tense, Burnwald Punt fell into a weird kind of trance sitting there and gazing at the little ball of blood clay. It was as if everything around him faded, became a watercolor pastel version of itself. Sounds receded. The light dimmed, or his perception of it did.

Within his head he heard a command: "Send forth."

It was not his own voice or any voice he recognized, but it spoke, silently, with definite force.

Punt thought, _Go forth._

The Tuesday had been cloudy-bright. Now the clouds congealed, as it were, and the light dimmed all through the Valley.

Punt did not see it—he was in no position to—but beneath his chair, his shadow began to move, at first pulsating. Then it flowed in a meandering stream to the wall, where it rose into an almost human silhouette.

It found its way outside via the crack beneath the front door.

And it headed toward the Shack at more than a walking pace but less than a run.

Birds sprang into the air and flapped away as it flowed over the ground. Squirrels leaped from branch to branch as the shadow momentarily darkened the bole of the tree they were occupying. A Gravity Faller, Mr. Hubert Trebbert, fifty-two, out for his noon walk, fainted at the corner of Main and River streets, the first time in his life he'd ever passed out. Good Samaritans helped him up and even drove him to the clinic, where he told the doctor, "I dunno. I was just walking along. I wasn't doing anything, just walking. I mean, I wasn't doing anything, doc. And this cloud or something darkened the sun, and it passed over me, I guess, and everything just went dark and the next thing I know, I'm on the ground with this big goose egg on my forehead. And I wasn't doing anything. Just walking."

Dr. la Fievre examined him, found BP, pulse, and respiration normal, checked for signs of concussion, found none, and wrote on Hubert's chart "Syncope, undermined origin," which is medical talk for "Passed out, darned if I know why."

In the Shack, Stanford Pines, on the ragged edge from getting by on a couple of hours of sleep every twenty-four hours, jolted awake in his seat down in the lab. Something had just tested the protective boundary around the Shack, and an alarm had sounded. Ford shut it off and hurried upstairs.

The others were just finishing lunch—Soos and his family were prolonging their out-of-town visit, since Soos patriotically declared on a phone call to Stan that "Election Day is, like, a Shack holiday, dawg. Put up the closed sign, please, and add one that says, 'Vote for Mr. Pines.'"

"We've got an unwelcome visitor," Ford said. "It's out on the lawn, right at the edge of the protective barrier."

They looked. They saw nothing except the oddly dark trees and lawn. "It got real cloudy real fast," Fiddleford said.

"Can you localize it, Director?" Agent Hazard asked.

"I propose to go outside, keep close to the Shack, and scan with my anomaly detector," Ford said. "The rest of you stay inside."

"Respectfully, sir, forget that," Hazard said, drawing her quantum destabilizer and checking the charge.

Fiddleford McGucket didn't say anything but reached for his banjo case.

"I'm going, too," Dipper said. "You need someone to guard your back, Grunkle Ford."

"You need two someones, Dr. P," said Wendy.

"I'll stay here and hold down the fort," Stanley said. "I got a feeling I wouldn't be much use anyhow."

Dipper, Wendy, Amy Hazard, Ford, and Dr. McGucket went on the prowl for the intruder. The first four carried weapons, the pistol version of the quantum destabilizer and an axe that had come down in the Corduroy family to Wendy.

Fiddleford had armed himself with a banjo.

No, he wasn't still nuts. He'd tricked out this particular musical instrument, a Bacon Ne Plus Ultra Silver Bell Number 6, a family heirloom that dated back to the 1920s. The instrument had once been played by the legendary John Rector, whose performance on "Blue-Eyed Girl" was, as they say, a rouser.

At some point Rector traded in the four-string for a five-string, and somehow Great-Grandpappy McGucket came home with the banjo one morning. How he managed to acquire such an expensive instrument was never fully explained, but Grandpap knew from experience that if he came home with anything he'd won in a poker game, Great-Grandma would bust it over his pumpkin head.

Great-Grandpappy taught Grandpa to play the banjo, Grandpa taught Daddy, and Daddy taught Fiddleford, who could play "The Old Kentucky Shore" while still in short britches and who amazed the high-school prom in his junior year with a rousing performance of the old Hollies tune "Stop, Stop, Stop!" That landed a puzzled Fiddleford in detention for three days for suspected hippie tendencies.

During his loony phase, Fiddleford had adapted the banjo in ways the Bacon company could not have anticipated. After Ford's return, Fiddleford had added a quantum destabilizer unit—firing tube along the bottom of the neck—which he aimed from the hip with commendable accuracy.

Meanwhile, he strummed chords as the group, keeping a cautious spread, Ford at point, Wendy the rear guard, paced the perimeter just barely inside the protective field. The indicators hinted that whatever it was crept within touching distance of the unicorn-hair field, going counterclockwise. The guards did the same, but clockwise, step after slow step. Sooner or later . . ..

Ford held his destabilizer pistol at a forty-five-degree angle. Dipper, by Ford's request, carried the anomaly detector, a more sophisticated and heavier one than Dipper's personal model. He walked inboard a couple of steps, toward the house. Just behind him and to his left Amy Hazard kept up a station that would allow her a line of fire for anything that might approach, provided it didn't come from exactly the far side of Ford. Fiddleford, like Dipper, walked closer to the house, banjo now silent but ready to fire. Behind Hazard, Wendy, who didn't have to worry about field of fire, clutched her axe. It seemed to flicker with pale blue flames.

For half the way around nothing happened. Dipper noticed the same kind of eerie silence that had fallen before—not a woodpecker, not a bird song, not a rustle of wind in the trees. The clouds overhead might as well have been poured as liquid lead—they lay in a flat gray ceiling, featureless. The sun, presumably not far from zenith, was not even a pewter gleam behind the cloud cover.

Dipper didn't need the anomaly detector to tell him _Something's not right._

They had just passed the Museum porch when the screen of the detector showed something—on the current setting, it should have been a silhouette of any paranormal creature. A Gnome would have shown up as a small pointy-headed humanoid, the Gremloblin as an outlined hulk of a creature.

This was a scramble of violet, green, and yellow jitters, without shape, seemingly without substance. "Ahead, ten o'clock," Dipper whispered. Ford stopped and raised his left hand, fist clenched.

The others spread out, Hazard by Ford's side, Wendy directly behind Ford, shoulder nearly touching the invisible protective shield. Dipper drew his destabilizer pistol, carefully, and kept his eyes on the screen. Whatever it was came toward them, the squirming mass of squiggling colored lines moving at a snail's pace.

_It's looking for a weakness, a way in._

Then with no warning, it charged.

"It's coming!" Dipper yelled.

* * *

"Sir," Punt's poll watcher said over the phone, "It's two P.M. and—"

"What? Don't just stand there muttering, Mackelroy! Report, dammit! Earn your pay!"

"Um sir, you're ahead by about sixty votes."

"Declare victory."

"Sir, that's illegal. People are still voting, and some votes are just coming in from, um, from out in the county."

"So?"

"Um—" Mitchell hesitated, his mouth dry and his hands feeling clammy. For Burnwald Punt the truth was whatever lie he wanted you to believe. When confronted with a real truth, he could become unpleasant. "Um, sir, the rural vote is running heavily for Mr. Pines. In the past forty minutes, he's shaved away your lead. It was eighty-one votes forty minutes ago, now it's only sixty. Um, sorry, fifty-eight."

"Fraud!" Punt bellowed. "Have the rural ballots thrown out! Bribery. Fraud. Fake votes! Stop it while I'm ahead!"

"Sir, that's impossible."

"You think being fired is im—"

"Sir?" Mitchell asked, his voice quavering. "I, um, I didn't get that."

His boss didn't answer, not in words. But he—he growled. He snarled, like an infuriated animal.

"Are—are you all right? Should I call a doctor?"

"Nnooo!"

"Mr. Punt, is that you?"

Mitchell realized it was Burnwald Punt, but a Burnwald Punt seemingly doing an impression of a crazed movie monster, a Mr. Hyde, a Frankenstein's monster, a cornered werewolf.

"Ggetttt themmm!" the altered voice screamed in a thick, clotted gargle. "Killll themmm all!"

The line went dead.

"Hey, driver man!" Mabel Pine's voice, sounding gleeful. "You better tell your boss that the Corduroy family vote just came in. His lead's down to fifty-four, sucka!"

"Erm—yes. Yes," Mitchell said, hanging up the phone. "I—yes, I—" He swallowed hard. "Is—is there only one road out of town? I need to know for—for later."

* * *


	24. Trouble

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**24-Trouble**

Lots of things happened all at once.

In fact, it's all but impossible to keep track of them all, but hang onto your hats, or if you don't wear them, to your seats, or if you're not sitting, to someone you know. Preferably well.

The Gnomes had become aware of the flitting shadowy thing flowing through the forest. They were preparing a means of counterattack but weren't quite sure they had it right, so a skirmishing party, led by Colin and including Quartz and Mimi the Destroyer (a Gnome version of Grenda, whom she much admired), followed the path of the darkness as fast as they could. It left neither track nor scent, so the task proved difficult.

The three Gnomes emerged from the brush on the hillside that sloped down toward Stanley's house. Quartz, a former Feral Gnome whose sense of darkness was more acute that that of the two surface dwellers, said in Gnomish, " _Dha eyon seh_!" The terse words can be translated as "It is here somewhere!"

As the three Gnomes climbed saplings for a better vantage point, something else happened—

"It's trying to breach the force field!" Ford yelled as an energy dome popped into their vision. They saw it as a swirling, transparent multicolored dome, lavender bleeding to pale blue, the surface swimming with arcane symbols. It enclosed them like an aging soap bubble stubbornly refusing to pop. The air around the Shack crew crackled and smelled of ozone.

"It's coming from there!" Hazard said, pointing.

"Everyone, don't touch the field! Hold your fire!" Ford ordered as they hurried to the spot. "If we pierce the field, it may be able to come in!"

And then something else happened—

In his temporary home, Burnwald Punt yelled inarticulately and cursed into the phone. He dropped the instrument, feeling waves of electric shocks hitting him from seemingly everywhere at once.

"Stop!" he shouted in a voice that sounded nothing like his own. He tried to make it to the door but collapsed to his knees and then fell sideways. He pounded the floor with a fist. "Not like that! You can't do it like that!"

Another lash of pain hit him, and he screamed, _"STOP!"_

And about that same time, Mr. Mitchell excused himself for a bathroom break, went downstairs—they were counting votes in the meeting room above the ground-floor offices of the town hall—and continued outside.

No, not like a bear in the woods.

He got into the limousine, started it, headed out of the Valley, and held the accelerator to the floor all the way. The minute the big car sailed through the split cliffs, the sun came out. With a sense of relief, Mitchell slowed to merely the speed limit for the rest of the way.

Eventually Mick drove as far as Hirschville, where he parked the car illegally and left two notes beneath the wiper:

* * *

_This car is the property of Burnwald Punt. His private number is 555-190-5164. Please give him the note folded in this one._

The second note read,

_I quit. Michael Mitchell, that's Mitchell, you son of a bitch._

* * *

He had some money. Later, he settled for a lump sum instead of his pension. He found a home somewhere in the Pacific Northwest—not in or even close to Gravity Falls—and bought into a small auto rental agency. Even at his admittedly advanced age, he married, and he and his wife adopted two refugee children. But that's all in the future.

At this point, we're concentrating on the moment he took the down stairs in the town hall two at a time and then ran to the limousine. At that exact time, something else happened.

Whatever was shoving impotently at the force barrier all at once slipped a few feet back and like that, poof! the cloud cover thinned and weak sunlight managed to break through. It was hazy-bright and the shadows it cast were diffused rather than sharp, blurred rather than focused.

However—

"There it is!" Dipper yelled. "But—what is it?"

"A shadow apparition!" both Ford and Agent Hazard exclaimed at once.

"It's squirmy as a skillet full of night-crawlers on a hot stove!" Fiddleford, of course.

And the nearly shapeless shadow on the grass did writhe and pulsate, sending out tendrils, pulling them back, swelling and shrinking.

"It can't get through," Ford said. "All we have to do is hold it off!"

"Hey, are those Gnomes?" asked Wendy.

And at the same time—

"Charge!" yelled Colin.

Quartz, hefting a rock the size of his head, cried, " _Fawks a balloc_!"* and passed Colin.

Mimi screamed, "Gnome crush!" and even without uniting with other Gnomes seemed to swell to twice her size.

"Guys, stay back!" Dipper yelled.

But a battle-maddened Gnome is hard to stop. Colin hurled the stone so hard it smushed into the earth and half-buried itself.

The shadow jerked away from it and somehow—Dipper didn't know how he knew this—it whirled to face the Gnome attack.

A pseudopod of inky darkness shot toward Colin, who blinked—not his eyes, but his body—and instantly reappeared behind the attacker. Mimi flung herself on it and tried to grapple with it. It picked her up like an octopus seizing prey and flung her, hard. She crashed into a young pine tree, fell to the ground and sprang up again, screaming incoherently.

"Watch out, Gnome dudes!" Wendy yelled. "You can't beat it that way!"

Colin was dancing around making goofy faces and yelling, "Can't catch me, can't catch me!" He blinked again as the shadow hurled itself at him.

"I've never witnessed a Gnome at close quarters teleporting before," Ford said. "Fascinating!"

"What's goin' on here?" rumbled Stan's voice from behind them. "What's that thing?"

"It's a shadow apparition!" Hazard snapped. "Very dangerous!"

The shadow had again evaded Mimi's attempt to wrestle it and hurled her. She sailed through the barrier—Gnomes didn't set it off, apparently—and hit so hard that she rolled ten feet and then pushed herself up, bleeding orange from her nose and spitting out a tooth.

Quartz had picked up a log about three feet long and whomped the shadow with it. The log did no harm, but a tentacle of darkness slapped Quartz and sent him spinning like a Gnome top.

"Hey!" bellowed Stan. "Pick on something your own size!"

"Stanley, no!" Ford yelled.

But Stan, his sleeves rolled up and both fists gleaming with knuckle dusters, had already charged through the field.

The shadow rose up into a man-shape, like a black silhouette cut out of the day. It reached out as if to engulf Stan—

"Wendy, no!" Dipper yelled.

Stan shouted, "Stay out of—"

Wendy's axe gleamed as she swung it, making a spiral of silver light, and thunked into the shadow. For just an instant a jagged diagonal wound cut through the man-shape, which coalesced and staggered. It reeled away to the edge of the woods, and Wendy pressed in, axe raised, striking again, pinning the shadow to a tree—

_Miles from the shack, Punt felt as if a sword had pierced his belly—_

But the shadow pulled itself along the axe handle and its tentacles seized Wendy—

Dipper, already through the sizzling field, raised his quantum destabilizer but couldn't fire without hitting Wendy—

Woman and darkness whirled dizzily, spun like a dust-devil filmed at ten times normal speed, leaped away through the forest—

"What happened?" Stan asked.

Hazard was cursing. The air didn't turn blue, but the sun did come fully out.

"It took Wendy!" Dipper yelled, his voice treble with fear and anger. He ran to the tree and with a grunt pulled the axe loose. "Come on!"

"Where?" Fiddleford asked.

Dipper gasped for breath. "We've got to save Wendy!"

"But we don't know where it took her!" Ford said.

"Um. That's not exactly true," said Colin, who was inside the field and helping Mimi to her feet.

"Come! We lead you!" rumbled Quartz. " _Currith shinn creoch airan_!"**

And at that same moment, in the town hall—

"Oh, no!" Mabel groaned as eleven more votes were counted, as against twelve for Punt.

* * *

*"Let me at him!"

**"We have to end this!"

* * *


	25. Devil's Bargain

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**25-Devil's Bargain**

The ride frustrated both humans and Gnomes. Colin, leading the way, could not resist blinking—and when he did, Stan, at the wheel of the Stanleymobile, cursed and braked, because the Gnome, perhaps a mile ahead, could not blink back into a moving car, only from one.

"What's wrong with that guy?" Hazard, sitting next to Stan, groaned. Ford, shotgun position, pounded his big fist on the dashboard in frustration. In the back seat, Dipper cradled the supernatural axe, trying to reach out mentally to Wendy—their link worked only by touch, but he tried, how he tried—while Fiddleford muttered, "You know it's takin' her back to Punt in that house he's rentin'!"

With a barely audible _fwip!_ Colin was back, this time with Jeff. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," Colin said. "You're just so slow!"

"Ease off," Jeff told him. "Look we know where the thing's dragged Wendy—"

"Is she all right?" Dipper yelled.

"Far as we know. It's the place where we dug out the bones—"

"Told ya!" Fiddleford said.

"But listen: the man Punt is trying to call the Shack. He must not know anybody else's cell-phone number. But we have his!"

Ford and Dipper both pulled out their phones at once. "What is it?" Ford asked harshly.

Jeff told him and Ford punched it in. "I'll put it on speaker," he said.

The phone rang twice, with Dipper clutching Wendy's axe handle so hard that his knuckles were white. Punt's rough voice spilled out into the car: "Who's this?"

"Stanford Pines," Ford said. "We know you've got my niece—"

"Shut up. You have something I want, or you know where it is. Bring it to me if you want the girl."

"Don't do it!"

Dipper gasped when he heard his wife's voice. "Wendy! Are you OK?"

They heard Punt snarl and something bang, but nothing more from Wendy.

"If you harm her," Ford said, "you can never run so far that we won't find you. I know what you want. We'll bring it—but we also know who you are and what you are."

"You've got half an hour!" the voice snarled, and the connection broke.

"Guys!" Jeff said. "We Gnomes have been working on a plan just in case Punt does something crazy with the election. You know where to find him. Colin and I are going to rally the Gnomes. Good luck!"

With a couple of _fwips!_ the two Gnomes vanished.

"You ain't gonna take that witch jar to him?" Fiddleford asked.

"Mason?" Ford asked.

"Grunkle Ford," Dipper pleaded, "you know what I have to say."

"The kid's right," Stan said. "Hang on." He pulled a tight U-turn, they sped back up the hill, and Ford rushed inside the Shack. He came back holding the sealed urn and Hazard opened the door for him.

"This is extraordinarily dangerous," Ford said.

"We'll take that chance," his brother told him. "Speed limit, prepare to be broken!"

They made good time across town, and this time Stanley didn't park at the curb but pulled down the drive and stopped the car beneath an ornate porte-cochère to the left of the Chambron house. Ford said tersely, "Put it in park and leave the engine running."

As they got out, Dipper scanned the area for any sign of Gnomes but saw none. They went to the front door and Hazard rang the doorbell.

A speaker on the door frame said, "Come straight in. Hands where I can see them. No tricks."

Taking a deep breath, Hazard turned the doorknob and they crowded through.

The foyer smelled of undisturbed dust. An Oriental carpet, red and gold, softened their footsteps. They passed through and emerged in a spacious living room. A chandelier with the patina of age hung from the ceiling, a sofa, a loveseat, and two armchairs clustered in front of a fireplace. An open archway led from that room back into a formal dining room, three heavy pillars supporting the arch. Punt stood in front of the center one, unshaven and disheveled. "Give it to me," he said.

"Where's Wendy?" Dipper demanded.

From just behind Punt they heard Wendy's muffled voice, as if she'd been gagged.

Smiling, Punt took a half step to the left.

At first Dipper had the crazy impression that Punt had bound Wendy to the pillar by wrapping her in a shroud of electrician's tape. She had been cocooned, and a wide band of the black tape covered her mouth, but her green eyes blazed with anger.

Then with a shock, Dipper realized the stuff wasn't tape at all, but shadow, darkness, the eerie thing that had been trying to break through the barrier.

Ford held the urn up. "Let her go and I'll give you this."

Snorting, Punt said, "Give it to me and then I might let her go."

"Director," Hazard said softly, her right hand near her holstered weapon.

"Uh-uh," Punt said. "Cut off her breath."

The darkness tightened visibly and Wendy's face grew red as she fought to draw in air.

"Stop it!" Dipper said. "If you hurt her, you'll never get it!"

"I got you covered," Fiddleford said, leveling his banjo.

Punt hesitated. "Unwrap her," he said. "But keep a grip on her throat. If they try to get at me, break her neck!"

The darkness around Wendy flowed until a thick blob of it enveloped the pillar. One tentacle wrapped her throat. Her face showed how furious she was—Wendy had never been a damsel in distress, and Dipper knew she didn't intend to start now.

"Now," Punt said. "Swear that you won't try to hurt me. All of you! Swear it!"

"Promise you'll let her go!" Dipper yelled.

"As soon as I get my property, you can all go. Go to hell for all I care!" Punt said. "Now!" he didn't move but held out his hand.

Behind him, Wendy shook her head. Her gaze darted to the axe Dipper held. She twitched her head as though she wanted him to approach her.

"Everybody else, stand away," Ford said. They backed, Dipper moving to the right to be closer to Wendy. "Everyone—swear that we won't raise a hand—"

"Or a weapon!" Punt said.

"Or a weapon—or a banjo—against this man. I swear it. Everyone agree by saying 'Yes.'"

They all murmured agreement, though Stan's voice sounded as if he'd forced the syllable through crushed gravel. "Very well," Ford said. "I believe I know what may be in this container. I warn you, Mr. Punt, it's your death. Open it at your great peril."

"Gimme," Punt said.

Ford stepped forward and extended the vase.

Punt, licking his lips, reached out to receive it.

Wendy gestured with her right arm, and Dipper understood.

Punt's eyes were so fixed on the little stoneware urn that he didn't seem to notice the toss. The axe spun flashing through the air, and as if it knew Wendy's hand, the handle smacked right into her palm. The dark shadow creature jerked her back, but she turned into the motion, the axe blade sliced the air and continued, severing the tentacle.

Punt howled, his arm falling useless. He lost his grip on the urn, and it fell, smashing to the floor. "Run!" Ford yelled.

Dipper grabbed Wendy's hand. — _Don't look back, Wen_!

_I owe him one!_

Behind them, punt screamed and gibbered and bellowed syllables that sounded like nothing a human throat could produce. The crowd spilled through the front door and around to the side. They piled into the car and Stan threw it into reverse and floored the accelerator.

Something dire and unearthly made sickening noises inside the house.

The tires screamed as Stanley straightened the car out in the street and took off for downtown. Until they'd left the old Dutch Colonial mansion well behind, they could hear the chaotic sounds of something terrible happening inside.

"What broke loose in there?" Wendy asked.

"Are you all right?" Hazard asked her.

"No! I'm mad as hell! Dr. P, what was in that jar?"

"I think," Ford bellowed, "it was his soul. His real soul!"

"Good riddance!" Stan yelled back. "At least we're safe now!"

"No, I think the danger's just beginning!"

Stan braked, and Dipper looked out the window. "Why are we here?"

"Last place he'd look!" Stan said. "We'll be safe here. And besides—I ain't voted yet, and it's a quarter to seven!"

They rushed into the Town Hall.

* * *

Whatever had burst from that shattered container was a foot long, snake-like, with a hundred legs, a nightmare centipede with a tiny human head. The shadow creature had dissipated like smoke.

Punt, kneeling, nursed his right arm. It felt as if the axe had cut through flesh, muscle, and bone at the elbow, though to all appearances the arm remained whole.

His mouth gaped in agony, a high keening whine coming from it.

The centipede creature climbed his shirt front and darted into his mouth.

Punt jerked spasmodically, a marionette on strings pulled by a raving idiot. He could not breathe. He clutched at his throat, clawed at his face—

He did not swallow, but—

 _It crawled down this throat_.

_He could feel the pinches of the claws, the bulge and ooze of the body._

Something inside his chest burned like hot coals. Somehow Punt got to his feet, staggering, lurching, flailing. He felt his body swelling changing. The shirt tightened and split at the seams.

He held his hands up. The right one no longer felt injured. The fingers grew thick like sausages, a mottled purple, the nails lengthening and curving into sharp, horny claws. At last he could get his breath.

He felt—

He felt _powerful!_

He felt ready to track down the insects who had insulted him, to squash them.

And now in his new form, he knew he could find them unerringly.

Where was that idiot with the car?

No matter. Now he could run, fast as the wind.

He gargled a liquid laugh.

_Get ready, insects. Punt is coming to exterminate you._

_I'll own this miserable town!_

_I'll get you all!_

_And feast on your souls._

* * *


	26. Implosion

**Future Tense**

_(July 2018)_

* * *

**26-Implosion**

In a way, the fact that nobody missed Mr. Mick Mitchell when they came running upstairs in the town hall was sad, in an existential way. Stan led the way into the room. "What's shakin?" he asked.

Mabel raised her tear-stained face toward him. "Punt has fifty percent, Grunkle Stan. You got forty-nine. You're losing!"

"Huh," Stan said.

Anxiously, Tyler Cutebiker asked, "Are there any voters still in line downstairs?"

"No," Dipper said. "They're just waiting to wrap up in—" he checked the time on his phone—"about seven minutes."

"Shoot!" exclaimed Tyler, as shocking in him as an explicit vulgarity about bodily functions would have been in Tad Strange. "Scour the building! See if we can find some folks who're over eighteen, who've spent a total of a year in the Valley in the last five, and who haven't voted!"

"I haven't!" They spun around. Teek stood in the doorway. "I'm nineteen, we've lived here for seven years, full-time, and what do I have to do?"

Mabel handed him a ballot. "Go to the table, fill this out, and hand it to Tyler! Quick!"

"That won't be enough," Tyler said sadly.

"Hey, I ain't voted yet!" Stan said. "Gimme one of them."

Mabel yelped. "I didn't vote, either! Brobro? Wendy?"

"Ballots!" Dipper shouted. "Amy?"

"Don't qualify," she said.

"Fiddleford?"

"Done voted."

"Everybody else, vote!"

Fortunately, it was a simple ballot. Mabel collected them and handed them to Tyler. "Rip 'em open and count them!"

"All righty! Keep track. One for Stanley Pines. One for Grunkle Stanley with a pink heart around Pines. One for Stanley Pines. One for Me, Stanley Pines. And one for Stanley Pines."

"Five more!" Mabel rattled the keyboard of the official election computer.

"Voting ends in twenty seconds!" Tyler said.

Mabel frantically did the work. "Add . . . total votes counted, 6012!"

"Really good turnout!" Tyler said. "Results?"

Mabel said, "Got it. Total vote for Burnwald Punt, three thousand and five! Total vote for Stanley Pines, three thousand and SEVEN! It's, let's see, Punt 49%, Pines 50%!"

The clock in the town hall tower bonged.

"Seven o'clock!" Tyler said. "I declare this election over! Congratulations to—"

The whole building shook.

"That may be Punt," Ford said, holding onto a table.

Screams from downstairs. Insane noises on the stairs.

Punt was coming, in mad fury. Climbing the stairs. Punt.

What was left of him.

* * *

The neighbors on Montrose Street at first thought the old Chambron house had exploded, natural gas or something. But when they ran to doorways and windows, the place still stood. Granted, every window had blasted outward and the lawn glittered with shards of glass for thirty feet around in every direction, and the front door, instead of standing firm on the porch like well-behaved front doors do, lay on its back in the exact middle of the street.

And something roiling, stretching, swelling, changing form endlessly swarmed down the street, trailing noxious vapors. Some witnesses said it looked like a man covered in liquid tar, except livelier like. Others compared it to a phantom octopus, tentacles stretching, grabbing, dragging the bulbous body along. Some said it had a head. Others swore it merely had a spectacularly ugly face in the middle of its chest. A few of the neighbors carpooled and headed for the Shack—the last time this had happened, that offered the only safe haven in town.

The Gnomes tried to follow the apparition, scrambling along, some of them blinking, a body of three bringing up the rear, lugging the weapon. Shmebulock had climbed a tree and was whistling—he couldn't say much, but he could emit a piercing whistle—while anxiously watching the sky. Ahead, the Gnomes closest to Punt kept sending up Gleams—they looked like skyrockets, brilliantly silver and gold, but they were more like Gnomish signal flares. They'd show him where the Gnomes eventually ended up.

Shmebulock climbed to the very top of a tall Western Hemlock, where the delicate branches were almost too thin to support even the weight of a Gnome. With his left foot braced as well as he could do it against the likeliest branch where it joined the trunk, Shmebulock clung to a cluster of three maybe-too-small shoots with his left hand and whistled again.

The thing he was calling made no noise, but all at once he felt his shoulders gripped and the tree fell away, and here he was flying, the world down between his dangling feet, the wind in his face whipping his beard back like a cape. He got his bearings in the spinning world and pointed straight ahead. "Shmebulock!"

He'd never read a comic book in his life, but if he had, he might have said softly to himself "Superman!"

Or maybe "SuperGnome."

He saw they were passing over a crowd of Gnomes who swarmed through the streets, making no effort to hide from human eyes. They were heading for the town hall.

Gnomes don't have precognition, but it didn't take that for Shmebulock to whimper a little as his insides writhed.

He knew, without knowing how he knew, that they were heading for something beyond understanding.

* * *

Hazard saw the mass emerge at the top of the stair. In the entire Agency she was far and away the best shot.

The beam of her quantum destabilizer cut a six-inch hole through the apparition and scorched the wall behind. For a moment, the entire mass boiled black and red and shuddered. Then it began to coalesce into a semblance of form. She ducked back inside and said, "It's a class-X!"

"Don't use the destabilizers!" Ford shouted. "Whatever it is isn't of sufficient physical material to be—"

The door began to bend inward. "Behind the tables, everybody!" Stan yelled. "That includes you, knuckleheads!"

"My axe hurts it," Wendy said.

"I'm backing Wen!" Dipper yelled.

"Grappling hook!"

"Hell," Grunkle said. "If this is it, it's an honor to die alongside—"

The hinges ripped loose, and the door pivoted inward on the lock.

Mabel vomited.

Tyler stepped forward, visibly trembling, pale as a ghost. "You—git, git on out of here!" he said, stamping his foot.

The seething arms, tentacles, projections, protrusions, writhed, and one of those black tentacles snapped out, striking Tyler in the chest and knocking him against a file cabinet and spinning him to the floor.

Ford said, "You have one minute to vacate this plane of existence and transfer to the nearest dimension—"

A warped, bulging, distorted face—the face of Burnwald Punt, but three times normal size—shaped itself on the surface of the thrashing heap of misfit parts. A horrible liquid voice bubbled out of the mouth, which drooled green. "I WON! THIS TOWN IS MINE!"

Tyler pushed himself up. Blood dripped from a cut lip. "You lost! You lost fair and square, Stan Pines fifty per cent, you forty-nine! Anyway, abominations aren't eligible for office, so there!"

The black tentacle lashed again—

And Wendy slashed through it.

The creature was hurt. It yowled, the mouth widening to devour the entire Puntish face, turning inside out, gleaming in a raw red wound lined with random teeth.

Hazard flipped the table onto its side. "Get behind this!" They shoved it as hard as they could against the bulky squirming, shapeless form. It gripped the door frame with black tentacles and bulged, pressing the table forward.

"It's got form enough to resist!" Dipper yelled over his shoulder to Ford.

"Don't let it touch your flesh!" he yelled back. "It can't hold human shape unless it drains life essence—"

"It's coming under!" Mabel yelled. The creature was liquefying, a nasty thick substance oozing under the edge of the upended table, sickly green, streaked with purple and red, loose clumps of hair, warts, a tooth or two embedded in the nasty sludge.

"Out the window!" Teek yelled. He threw the sash open. "Mabel!"

"On it! Grappling hook!"

She fired the anchor through the door transom. It snagged the frame. "Everybody out!"

"Go, Poindexter!" Stanley yelled.

"I'm getting too old for this slip," Ford said, but he grabbed the line and dropped out the window and slid down to the ground.

McGucket forced Tyler to the window. He was clutching a sheaf of papers and wouldn't let go. "Official proof!" he said, and he went down holding on with only one hand.

"Kids!" yelled McGucket.

"Not until Grunkle Stan goes!" Mabel yelled in defiance. "Amy, you go!"

"I'm standing side by side with Wendy!" the agent said. "Mr. Pines, go, dammit!"

Wendy's axe flashed, the only thing the monstrous creature feared and avoided. "Kill!" its half-formed mouth screeched.

"Grunkle Stan, please!" Dipper begged.

"Nah. Hey, Ugly, ya want a piece of me? Come and get it!"

The surging creature shot a tentacle at him. Stan hit it with a clenched fist. For a moment it looked as if the monster was going to rip Stan's arm out of its socket. Then, with a shudder, it suddenly turned loose and yanked back into the amorphous body, which sent out a puff of steam.

"Hah! It don't like unicorn-hair necklaces! Wear it in bad health, loser!"

The creature surged, bubbles rose on its surface and plopped, and Stanley physically picked up Mabel and swung her out the window. "Go take care of her, Teek! McGucket, get your butt down that rope. Tell Ford what I did with the necklace!"

Hazard said, "Any ideas, Wendy?"

"Can't fight defense forever. Dip, you go."

"Not a chance. Not until Grunkle Stan does."

"It's going to rush us!" yelled Hazard. "Down!"

They crouched as the inhuman, grimy, nasty thing rose in a wave—

"Now!" It was a Gnome's voice, from behind them.

Pink light filled the office and—

"Get out, humans!" Jeff yelled as he leaped from the windowsill to the floor. "We Gnomes got a score to settle!"

Something somewhere was gibbering like a chipmunk on helium.

Stan yelled, "Jeff, where did that thing—"

The Gnome pointed. "Mayor, you got to get to safety! Go! Not through the window, down the stairs, everybody run!"

Stan tossed the table on end. "Get while the getting's good!" he yelled.

"You first, you old codger!" Wendy said. Grumbling, Stan hustled down the stairs, Dipper followed him, and Wendy and Hazard backed down after them, on the defense.

Amy said, "Damn, I still want to work with you, girl!"

"Only professionally!" Wendy said. They reached the bottom of the stairs and then took the side door out into the evening. A crowd of Gnomes directed them around back.

"What the heck did you do? Kill it?" Stan asked.

A bunch of Gnomes stood below the open window high above. "Shrank it!" they said. They brandished—it took four of them for a decent brandishing—Dipper's homemade shrink/enlarge flashlight. Actually about the fourth one—Mabel had smashed the first one.

"Wait," Dipper said. "It's still up there, but small?"

"It will grow if it can absorb a human," Jeff said. "It's still dangerous."

"But—there are Gnomes up on the windowsill."

"We don't think it can absorb a Gnome. Probably."

Maybe not, but it could fight them. The Gnomes on the windowsill started to yell and jostle. Dipper couldn't see what was going on, but then realized that the Punt-creature, now only about the size of a golf ball, was fighting the Gnomes. They smashed at it without inflicting noticeable damage. Its shrunken tentacles slapped and punched them, and they yelped in pain.

"They can't keep this up!" Wendy said. "If they can shove it out of the window, maybe it's small enough for me to kill it!"

"We don't think you can!" Jeff said. "Not now! It's got the Slyther inside it now! Look out! Catch them!"

The three Gnomes fell, and the ones on the ground cushioned their fall. The fourth Gnome fell from a higher altitude, yelling "Shmebulock!" as he plummeted.

Jeff and Steve together more or less broke his fall. "About time!" Jeff yelled.

"Look out! It's gonna jump!" Stanley shouted.

"Don't let it touch you!" Ford bellowed.

The diminished monster, with a wavering high-pitched scream, launched itself. Wendy drew back her axe for a desperate swipe—

Something dark, a piece of the night, swooped in and intercepted the monster, then soared away.

"Shmebulock!"

"That's right!" Jeff said.

Stan said, "Uh—not to interrupt or anything, but what the heck just happened?"

"Mayor!" the Gnomes called out happily. "Mayor! Mayor! Mayor!"

"Really," Ford said, "I'm happy too—congratulations, Stanley—but where did it go?"

"Punt?" asked Jeff. "The Midnight Owl took him."

"The—the—that-?"

"It's not an ordinary owl," Jeff explained. "It survives on monsters."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Stan said. "You're tellin' me that Mr. Punt—"

"Got beaten in the poll and got eaten by an owl," Jeff said.

For some little time they all just stood looking at each other. No one could find much to add to that.

* * *


	27. Mopping Up

**Future Tense**

_(July-December 2018)_

* * *

**27-Mopping Up**

**Part 1-From the Journals of Stanford Pines**

_July 25. It is late, and I am exhausted. However, I wish to set down a few observations before going to bed. So much has happened, and I do not understand half of it._

_First, improbable though it seems, my brother Stanley is now officially Mayor of Gravity Falls and by extension, the chief executive officer of Roadkill County. To be honest, I do not see how he can do worse in the office than old Mayor_ _Befufftlefumpter_ _, and he should be at least the equal of Mayor Cutebiker. The Gnomes are celebrating his election, and the humans of the valley, even those who voted for my brother's opponent, seem pleased. It is almost as though a dire spell has broken._

_There is the curious case of the owl in the night-time. In my reading, I happened across one other instance of owls preying upon humans, in the records of a court case, in which a young man, Titus something-or-other, told the court he was an orphan, his father having been eaten by owls._

_In the present situation, circumstances are different (I shall write more of this in my private secret classified work), and most especially, the Midnight Owl, as the Gnomes term it, is clearly not an ordinary flesh-bone-and-feathers species of_ Strigiform. _It seems to have existed as a curious blend of spirit and physicality. Just after sunset this evening, it visited the Mystery Shack—Soos saw it—and left behind an owl pellet._

_As a young boy interested in, well, everything, I sought such things and had a small collection representing screech owls, barn owls, and short-eared owls. I spent many hours dissecting them to learn what the owls had eaten and marveling over the neat packages of undigestible matter they had coughed up as pellets._

_This one was larger than any I had collected as a child. I told Soos what it was and got his permission to examine it. It held a human—or rather humanoid—skull, no larger than a jumbo marble, or roughly 35 mm. There were also remnants of other bones, curiously the consistency of gelatin. The pellet registered wildly on the anomaly meter, and I informed Soos it was dangerous._

_Agent Hazard assisted me, using a narrow-focus beam from a quantum destabilizer to destroy the thing. Whereas in life the destabilizer had small effect on the creature from which the remains had come, this time it succeeded in utterly eradicating everything._

_That was surprising enough. Later, though, I heard testimony to an equally surprising event. Wendy told me that while she and Mason were out for a nighttime stroll—they enjoy long walks together, especially on moonlit nights (and tonight the moon was close to full)—she was lying on her back in the grass when she saw, outlined against the moon, the figure of a jet-black owl. "It turned into a cloud and vanished," she reported. I surmise that its task had been completed, and it returned to the realm from which it had come._

_However, even that did not astonish me as much as my brother's statements to me—_

* * *

**Part 2-Family Meeting**

"Yeah, yeah," Stan said the next Sunday evening. He, Ford, Agent Hazard, Mabel, Dipper, and Wendy had gathered in Stan's den. "You heard me right. I gave Sheila five thousand bucks and she's in charge of redecorating the Mayor's office for me. I also gave Soos five thousand to accept the position of Executive Advisor to the Mayor."

"It's not like you to spend that kind of money, Grunkle Stan," Mabel said.

"Wasn't me," Stan said with a grin. "It was Nathaniel Spate, the only private eye in Gravity Falls."

"I . . . never heard of him," Ford said.

"That's 'cause he ain't had a case in twenty years. But he took on an assignment for the company owned by Burnwald Punt. Here, I got his card." He handed his brother a business card.

"This," said Ford, studying it, "is one digit removed from your own telephone number."

"Yeah, that's 'cause I'm Nathaniel Spate," Stan said. "Eh, it was a sideline for a while. But hardly anybody in town wanted a private eye, so it was like dormant until somebody called the number. It transfers to my cell phone and signals that it's for Nat. The clowns wanted me to dig up dirt."

"Shouldn't you return that money to them?" Ford asked.

They were sitting around Stan's desk. He reached down and plopped a fat file on the desktop. "Nah, I did what they wanted. Tons of dirt. This here's a record of everything I could find when I searched that house that Punt was renting. Whole lotta juicy stuff in there."

Ford shuffled through the papers. "I see. This is how you discovered those facts you told me about after the election."

"Yep," Stan said. "Bastard planned to wring every penny he could from the people of Gravity Falls, then build a dam—not a wall—across the only way out of the Valley. He had this cockamamie plan of piping water to the desert. His real reason was to hide whatever it was his parents had hidden—in case he couldn't find it. Bury it under a thousand feet of water."

In a sad, soft voice, "What about the little boy's bones?" Mabel asked.

Ford cleared his throat. "Sheriff Blubs has pronounced the case unsolvable. I've spoken with some people, and we'll give them a decent burial."

"What exactly was in that urn?" Dipper asked.

"It was something conjured by the adult Chambrons," Ford said. "The sacrifice of the child opened the gateway." He interlaced his twelve fingers and stared at them. "The man we knew as Burnwald Punt, remember, was really the son of the Chambrons. Even before his birth they imbued his spirit with . . . with darkness. He grew up caring nothing for other people. His parents fated him to be an exploiter, a cruel beast of a man. On the occasion of his thirteenth birthday, the Chambrons made a fatal error in performing an arcane ritual that would have allowed their adult son to contain the embryonic otherworldly thing they had imprisoned in the urn. It would have made him even more terrible than the thing that appeared to us—"

"How's that even possible?" Hazard asked.

"Because," Ford said, "he would have been that monstrosity, with paranormal powers, in outwardly human form. You see, what was inside the urn was a creature from beyond our reality. It can take many forms, because essentially it is formless. The ancients called it a _shokkodh_. It evidently entered Punt's—we might as well call him that—body and merged with him, but because of the failure of the earlier incantation, he could not control it and essentially morphed into its otherworldly form."

"You said he wanted to, like, steal our life force?" Wendy asked. "What did you mean by that?"

Ford thought for a moment before replying. "The creature he had become was not fully in our world or out of it. The one way it could regain human semblance was to be a—I don't know just what to call it, a psychic vampire? To pull from humans their vitality, leaving only lifeless bodies. And one wouldn't do it. As a human, Punt had planned to exploit, ruthlessly, the people of the Valley. As a monstrous creature, he planned to murder them. All of them. That would have given him a century of human appearance."

"Lucky the Gnomes had that shrinky flashlight thing," Stan said. "Who suggested that?"

"It was their own idea," Ford said. "The Gnomes had seen Mabel and Dipper using it years ago out in the yard, fortunately for us. It's also lucky that the Midnight Owl was, like the Punt monstrosity, of two worlds. Only such a creature could have eliminated Punt, or the thing he had become."

"Yeah," Wendy said. "Speaking of elimination, what are we going to do about Punt disappearing? He was rich. There's sure to be an investigation."

"Taken care of," said Hazard. "May I?" When Ford nodded, she added, "Thanks to information from an undisclosed source—" she nodded toward Stan—"the IRS, the FBI, and certain other agencies have discovered that Punt wasn't rich at all. In fact, he'd burned through a fortune and was living on credit. There's evidence that indicates he boarded an airplane in San Francisco on the afternoon following his loss in the election. Witnesses and a paper trail indicate that he flew to . . . well, let's say a country with no extradition agreement with the United States. There the trail runs cold."

"There's just enough left of his holdings," Ford said, "to liquidate and pay off his employees, though not at full value. By the way, his automobile was recovered at the San Francisco airport. Just another clue."

"There's a mystery remaining, though," Dipper said. "Grunkle Stan—why in the world did you want to be Mayor?"

Stan looked cautious. "I'll tell you later," he said.

"How much later?" Mabel asked.

"Eh—maybe Christmas."

"Awww!" she howled. Mabel had always hated waiting.

* * *

**Part 3-Back from the Future**

Christmas break! A time for enjoying a vacation from the books, getting together with family, overeating, and taking it easy!

On the day after they had returned from university and art school, Wendy, Dipper, and Mabel—Teek wouldn't be back from film school for another day—were unexpectedly called to the Mayor's office downtown.

It was the first time they had seen the fully redecorated room. "I like it!" Mabel said. It was welcoming yet a little odd: bright new curtains, a new dignified office chair, a plush carpet, sleek lamps, and on a round pedestal a tasteful imitation stuffed platypus standing on its hind legs and dressed in a kilt and tam o'shanter cap and wielding a miniature set of bagpipes. Through the window behind Stan they could see a lovely vista—Gravity Falls with a blanket of six inches of fluffy snow.

The young people were ushered into the office by Myrt, the executive assistant—the receptionist's title and salary had been upgraded—and to their surprise found Stanley in conference with a familiar pudgy figure wearing glasses so thick they looked like welder's goggles.

"Blendin!" Mabel exclaimed. "You time-rapscallion! What are you will have been up to?"

"Hell-hell-hello," Blendin said with a weak smile. "Your great-great-great-great-uncle—"

"What am I, Methuselah?" Stanley snapped. "Sing it."

To their surprise, Blendin did sort-of sing: "Your great-uncle wants me to speak to you about things to be . . .."

When he had finished his tale, Mabel asked, "So Soos would _die_?"

Yes, Blendin sang. Because he had a big heart and always wanted to help, he would visit the sick and would come down with a virus that, in the spring of 2020, would take his life.

"So—how does Stan's being mayor help?" asked Wendy.

Stan said, "OK, first, Mr. Blandin here—sorry, that's Major Blandin, or is it Colonel now?"

"Ma-ma-major," Blandin said.

"Major Blandin," Stan said, "advised me to make Soos my executive right-hand man. Together with him, I'm gonna get the town and the valley ready. We'll seal up everything starting in January of that year. The virus won't ever get in, people won't get sick, Soos won't catch it. By the way, you kids are gonna have to take time off from your schooling."'

"What?" Mabel asked. "It's that serious?"

After a struggle of "pans," Blandin got the word out.

To relieve Blandin from the stress of having to think up rhymes and their ears from having to hear him sing, Stan added, "The Major here told me your parents will be OK, Mabel. In fact, your dad can work from home—which means if they want, they can come up here and shelter with us. Things will get better, but it'll take a year or two."

Dipper gasped. "A year or two?"

"Dude," Wendy said to Dipper, "I can graduate by December next year."

"I suppose I can take some night classes in spring and summer and catch up," Dipper said. "Maybe we can both be finished."

"And Ma-Ma—" Blandin gave up and sang: "Mabel, you can get your degree, I'll help you through if you'll let me."

"What about Teek?" she asked.

"He'll be OK," Blendin continued. "He'll get sick, but not everyone dies, and he'll bounce back, he's a healthy young guy."

He went on to explain how Teek's film school would offer virtual classes. After recovering in the spring, Teek would be able to come home—and still work on his studies.

Dipper said, "This sounds really serious."

"It will change a lot of things," Blendin acknowledged. "But this I can promise you: if the Pines all hang together, they'll come safely through."

"All this for Soos?" Wendy asked. "I love the big guy, and he's about the kindest person I know, but—why is he so important?"

A buzzer sounded on Blendin's belt. "Oops, my-my-my time-time is up! I'll see-see you earlier!"

He pulled out his time-tape and vanished.

"I guess Soos is important to the future," Stan said.

"Heck with the future! He's important to _us_!" Mabel said loyally.

Someone knocked on the door, and Myrt stuck her head in. "Mr. Mayor, there's a delegation of Gnomes here to talk to you about a Gnome zoning matter."

"Work, work, work," Stanley complained. "You guys beat it. OK, Myrt, send 'em in. And, oh, Myrt—bring in a fresh, unopened deck of cards."

* * *

The End


End file.
